


Fathers and Heroes

by BenLMoore



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Angst, Banter, Batman - Freeform, Bottom Dean, Bottom Sam, Brief mention of abortion, Demon Deals, Domesticity, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Emotionally unstable Castiel, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff, Gender Dysphoria, High School Student Dean, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Domination, Mutual Pining, Older Sam, Oral Sex, Plotty, Power Bottom Castiel, Road Trips, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, Texting, Top Dean, Top Sam, Younger Dean Winchester/Older Sam Winchester, cross-dressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 21:01:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 69
Words: 240,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9566213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenLMoore/pseuds/BenLMoore
Summary: Sam Winchester, an unassuming accountant with a deranged boyfriend meets a green-eyed high school quarterback at a party for his estranged father and soon discovers that the kid doesn’t know the words "appropriate" or "legal.”For better or worse, the bond between them is irresistible. Dean is streetwise and cocky, and there's no way this ends well for Sam.***It’s just another school, another town. Dean's same old routine: you don't get attached to people, don't let them get attached to you.Trouble is, Sam's not just another guy. He's perfection, and that's no good, on so many levels.





	1. Kickoff

**Author's Note:**

> It was total coincidence that the first chapter of this fic was posted on the same day as historic Super Bowl L. That's just when it was ready.  
> Chances are, you, like I, were reading fan fiction, not watching football. But because of the shouters in my house, I was able to watch the overtime and see beautiful Tom Brady celebrating his legendary win.
> 
> He makes a cameo of sorts in this fic, but mostly it was inspired by reading, discussions, musings about LGBTQIA athletes. I grew up in a football frenzied household, but the game is a backdrop for self and mutual discovery of our beloved boys in a different, but not terribly dissimilar universe. 
> 
> Endless thanks to lecroixss for beta brilliance of the first half.  
> The final 110K words are being betad by the brutally honest and delightful amuswale. Thanks to them and to you for your priceless feedback.
> 
> It's been a crazy year-long journey writing this story. Here's hoping you enjoy reading it as much as I've loved writing.

[ ](https://imgur.com/x2107eK)

 

SAM WINCHESTER

FRIDAY

  
That old saying, 'Good morning,' never seems to apply to Sam's life. Just like every day, he awakens with a bass drum pounding behind his right eye. Castiel's cold fingers are wrapped around his cock and a wave of nausea swells sour on his tongue. Sam drools a groggy, half-hearted argument, but he's lost this battle too often to resist in earnest.

It happens in a haze of orders that Sam's hand winds up pressing a wide, pink print on a thin, pale back. The fingers of his other hand dig into sharp hipbone. Sweat stings his eyes and drips thick from the tip of his nose. Some slips salty between his lips.  
  
Castiel grunts and barks beneath him, “Harder, Sam. Harder. God damn it, fuck me harder. Oh, my God. Yeah. That’s my big boy. Like a … unh. Like an animal.”  
  
Sam’s mind shuts off. Teeth grit. Hips pound like pistons. He hammers like a pet machine.  
  
“Oh, yeah. Make me pay. Come on, baby. Show me who's boss.”  
  
The bedsprings croak about the abuse as Sam's eyes squeeze shut and his balls tighten. “I’m gonna come.”  
Castiel pulls away. Sam shudders and grabs the base of his cock. Denim blue eyes peer up; pink lips wrap around the head. Expert fingers milk Sam’s sac and he melts into the heat of Castiel's mouth like putty.  
Then, it’s over.  
  
The pleasure declines and the room starts to spin. Sam's insides churn, queasy-hollow. Bile still coats his tongue. For a cold moment, panic seizes his lungs. Is there time to make it to the bathroom? If he vomits here, he'll have to clean the bed. Cleaning the bed will make him late for work.

It's a false alarm. Sam belches and slumps forward, trembling on hands and knees. He wipes away the mucus and sweat from his burning face and drops himself onto the mattress, waiting for his pulse to even.  
Castiel rolls his eyes and jerks the pillow from under Sam’s head to cover his erection. It's flushed what must be a painful purple. “You know how much I hate when you stare.”  
  
Sam mutters a worn apology.  
  
Castiel twists his body around him, constrictor close. Sam’s skin crawls under freezing fingers that draw invisible patterns on his chest. Hearts and flowers.  
He should push away, roll aside, cover up, run, yell, cry.  
Instead, he lays there and lets Castiel toy with him.  
“You still love me? You love me, don’t you? You’re not still angry at me, are you, baby?” Castiel can purr like a house cat, but he is feral and savage. At times, he does bite.  
  
Sam remains motionless, hands limp at his sides. He's cornered prey with gaze fixed on the ceiling fan. “No.”  
  
“Of course, you’re not.” Cas teases over the end of a jagged scar that licks around from the back of Sam’s thighs.  
  
Those ugly, old wounds are behind him, both figuratively and literally. They're forgotten until Castiel reminds him. “My naughty boy. You must have been so bad. Awful, like me, when you were little. Wish I had known you back then. You’re too good, now, aren't you, Sammy?”  
  
Castiel's caresses tickle, irritate, then burn like Chinese water torture. He leans on one elbow and gazes into Sam’s face with a devilish grin that fades with the timing of the stage performer he once was. “He didn’t mean anything to me, you know?”  
  
“I know.” Sam sits up and tosses his unsteady legs over the edge of the bed.  
  
The drummer in his head is taking a full solo now. Six of the extra strength Tylenol he keeps on the bedside table ought to help. Sam empties them into his palm and downs them dry. Then he gets up to wash Castiel's shit off his cock.  
  
  
  
DEAN 'MILLER'  
FRIDAY  
  
Dean takes note of everything, the way a rabbit would in a friendly fox's den. He glances at the neat stack of files on the desk. What kind of information does this guy have on him?  
The whole office is about the size of a broom closet, has no windows - which means it's never aired out. That explains why it reeks as if every sweaty jock that ever sat in this squeaky chair left behind a pair of dirty socks and armpit odor as a souvenir. The white cinder block wall muffles locker doors clanging shut and the laughter of guys who've likely been on teams together since they had talcum on their asses.  
  
New school, same routine. He's been in more schools than he has fingers and toes. You go in. Do what you got to. Keep your head down. Don’t get attached. Don’t let anybody get attached to you. Easy.  
  
Dean straightens his spine and assumes GQ.com’s third position to convey confidence and command control. Right ankle over his left knee. Left arm draped along the thigh. Right elbow on right knee. Chin poised in right hand. Face muscles relaxed, but engaged.  
It's stupid.  
He unfolds himself and tries out positions four, and five before he settles for the classic slouch. At least he'd nailed the handshake when he entered the room.  
  
The old man sits back in his chair and clasps hairy knuckles over that paunch that seems to plague all guys over 40. Dean makes a mental note to do sit-ups every day for as long as he lives. The scuffed up name plate on the desk reads Coach John Winchester.  
  
“So, let me get this straight, son. You want to play, but you don’t want anybody to know about it?”  
There it is.  
Son.  
Dean crosses his arms tight against his chest. This is his only condition, but it’s non-negotiable. “I just can’t be in the papers.”  
  
“You do realize that the local paper writes something about high school ball every week. You’re saying I should ask them not to feature my new starting quarterback?”  
  
Dean sits up even straighter and swallows, despite his dry mouth. “They can write whatever they want, so long as they don’t use my name.”  
  
Coach Winchester’s whistle taps against the desk when he sits forward. He rests his elbows there and clasps his meaty hands in front of him. He's wearing a silver wedding band. “You in some kind of trouble, son?”

Dean has had enough men who aren’t his father call him ‘son’ to know that it’s an entitlement old men feel.  
Or it’s something else.  
  
The coach is pretty decent-looking and his players seem to respect him. It's still undecided how Dean'll react if all this paternal attention morphs into something else. He’s been down that road enough; he’ll know when it’s coming and either roll with it or knee the guy in the balls.  
  
Dean only gets fucked on his own terms.  
  
No matter their intentions, these men don’t seem to give a shit that, for some kids, words like ‘daddy,’ ’father’ and ‘son’ are like a loaded gun pointed at their temples. Dean grits his teeth, looks right into the coach’s dark eyes and lies. “No.”  
  
“No, sir,” Winchester corrects.  
  
Dean’s eyes narrow, then rove over the shelves of trophies in the glass case behind the coach. “No, sir.”  
  
“Mmhm.” The old man flicks a thumb over his shoulder. “You ever earn one of those?”  
  
Dean shakes head and slumps down in the steel chair again. “Don’t stay anywhere long enough for that. Like I said, probably gone again before spring.”  
  
“You know, son, I haven’t seen the caliber of tryout you gave in ... ever. You give me your A-game and I will make sure you remain anonymous. There anything else you need?”  
  
“No, sir.”  
  
Dean stands to shake the man’s hand and get the fuck out of his claustrophobic office. As he's exiting the door, the coach calls out, “One more thing, Mr. Miller. My daughter informs me that you had the honor of being her first kiss.”  
  
Dean halts like his veins are full of liquid nitrogen.  
  
“I only got one rule for the boy who dates my little girl: you make her cry, I make you cry.”  
  
***  
  
Dean has banged more than his fair share of eager girls all around these great United States. That being the case, he maintains a strict ‘no virgins’ policy. It’s a long story that he doesn’t tell.  
  
He glances around to make sure no one's watching before he creeps under the bleachers in the otherwise abandoned gymnasium. A heavenly sight of a tight ass in tight jeans awaits him. He pauses to cock his head and lick his lips.  
JoAnna is lying there on her belly, reading. She even brought a picnic blanket. Dean crawls under, but keeps his distance. He could have not come. Standing girls up sends a clear message, but this situation is delicate. He has to leave her hanging without creating any collateral damage.  
  
She smiles and sits upright. Strawberry pink lips and shiny, corn-silk hair make him groan right out loud. As she leans toward him, he raises an accusing finger in her adorable face. “You’re the coach’s kid?”  
  
“So?”  
  
“Why aren't you a cheerleader?” That came out wrong.  
  
She has the looks and the body. Even if she wasn’t any good at it, her father is all the connection she needs.  
  
“My dad says people make assumptions about cheerleaders.”  
  
Her dad's not wrong.  
  
“I’m in the band.”  
  
“And you told him about …” Dean flicks that same incriminating finger back and forth between them.  
  
“I tell my dad everything.”  
  
“That’s not normal.” And it merits another few inches between himself and that buttermilk skin.  
  
Jo folds the corner of her page and shuts her book. “He’s not as scary as everybody thinks he is.”  
  
“Ex-military?”  
  
She nods, exchanging reading material for something inside her backpack that makes a crinkling sound. “Marines.”  
  
“I’m assuming he owns weapons.”  
  
“Everyone around here does.” Jo opens the package and offers Dean a Twinkie.  
  
He flinches away from the snack cake like it’s a thing of the Devil. “How is that not scary?”  
  
She takes a dainty little nibble and he can smell all that high fructose corn-syrupy goodness whistling at his nostrils like a siren singing ‘Enter Sandman.’  
  
“He really likes you," Jo says. "Or your arm, but it’s kind of the same thing with my dad. He’s happy we’re dating. He told my mom that watching you play was like being alive for the second coming.”  
  
Dean doesn't reply to the overblown compliment. Bigger fish.  
  
Jo is licking creamy filling from her lips. The worst part? This girl doesn’t even know how that makes the blood rush from his brain to his boxers in T-minus-holyfuck. Dean takes a deep breath and wills himself to look away from her.  
  
That gives his mind a chance for a quick replay. “Wait. Are we dating?”  
  
“You’re so silly.” Jo laughs and presents the second delicious vending machine pastry.  
  
Dean narrows his eyes at it. For the first time, he has genuine sympathy for Adam’s dilemma. And that chick, Eve, only had an apple.  
  
“It’s fine. I swear. I already told him that I would invite you to his birthday party.” Jo is still holding out the golden sponge cake, waiting for Dean to take it.  
  
“You already told him I was coming?”  
  
“I told him I would ask you.” Her head tilts to the side, real cute.  
  
Dean’s fingers twitch with the temptation to brush her hair back over her shoulder and claim her second kiss. “So, in other words, if I say no, you gotta go back and tell your dad I turned you down?”  
  
She shrugs as if she hadn’t thought of that.  
  
Dean snatches the Twinkie from her hand and stuffs the whole damn thing into his mouth. “Awesome.”


	2. Chapter 2

Is it really a party if you're bored out of your mind? Dean fills his time with gawking at what he can see of the coach’s huge house. He knows fuck-all about furniture and decor, but everything looks like it is worth more than he is. He plays with the lint in his pockets to keep himself from touching things he can’t replace. Hell, they’re entertaining in the ‘parlor.’ The only kind of parlor he’s ever been in before is of the ice cream variety.

Jo had scared up a clean white shirt and a tie which he's wearing with the least worn out pair of jeans he owns and his ripped up black Chucks.

Cigar smoke and the rumbling laughter of half-drunk old guys fills the Winchester's parlor. Dean and Jo are the only kids in the house, and she spends most of the time in the kitchen with her mother. Those two are the only females, both of them in snow white dresses and open-toed shoes.

The coach places his tumbler of whiskey on the table beside his antique sofa so he can use both hands to tell his next story. “Where is Dean? Get over here, boy.”  
Until that moment, Dean was hiding in a corner behind a burly thirty-something guy who laughs at every unfunny thing Winchester says. This is Dean’s first birthday party, but it looks like everybody is here to kiss the birthday guy’s butt.

When the coach calls him, Dean’s mouth is working on his third slice of chocolate cake. Jo’s mother had dropped it onto his plate and Dean has never been one to turn down any food. The fancy silver fork clanks against the fine china as he puts them down and walks to the coach’s side.  
The alcohol on Winchester’s breath is rank. He’s overdone it with the cologne, too. Dean coughs as the coach drapes a heavy arm over his shoulder. The old man tells this war story about how he had to lean on some guy after an explosion or something like that. Dean takes the role of Some Guy. Judging by the rapt faces of Winchester’s guests, the tale is gruesome and hilarious. Dean isn’t listening.  
How and when can he get the hell out of here?

Jo and her mother are the Golden Goose and Gosling. Dean would put money down that Mary Winchester was a sweet little virgin when the coach first got his hands on her. She has that ‘only one man for me’ look. The expression on Jo’s face is all adoration for her dad or Dean or both. Dean looks away to avoid her eyes.

The universe shifts.

A blaze surges in Dean's chest.

Who the fuck is the mile-high guy on the other side of Jo’s mother? Where did he even come from? There is no way Dean missed him before.  
He's standing there with both hands stuffed in the pockets of his dark jeans and Dean can't see anything else. Everything about him is understated and awe-inspiring.

Dean has only been to church that one time, with a girl in eighth grade. It had served its purpose, and he's never forgotten that song: Holy Holy Holy. If he could get on his knees right now, he would praise God and suck hard.

Everybody's watching the coach, except for Dean. He and This Guy are dressed the same, with a few minor differences. Jo had given Dean a green necktie and made some comment about his eyes. This Guy's tie is blue. Also, his jeans are not falling apart at the seams. His shoes are the kind that get polish and shine.

He looks good in his clothes, but what's underneath is mouthwatering. Broad shoulders, strong arms, slender hips, and legs that won't quit. He’s got one hell of a handsome face, too. A wide mouth and kind of exotic eyes. Wavy brown hair just the right side of too long. Six and a half feet of fun.

“Mary, bring the boy a bourbon,” the coach bellows in Dean's ear without bothering to look at his wife.

He squeezes in closer. Dean wills himself not to shove the old man away and treats himself to another extended tour of the guy as Mrs. Winchester disappears behind the bar.  
“Don’t you tell a soul I let you drink.”

Dean takes a whiff of a stronger and better quality liquor than he’s ever had before.

One man whispers to the coach who is still leaning on Dean. The old man’s back stiffens and glances over his shoulder. Then, he nudges Dean and starts telling a new story as if he hasn’t seen The Guy at all.  
  
***  
  
Of course, Sam sees him. Nature's gift of perfect symmetry has guaranteed that no one ever fails to notice that boy’s face. Also, it's difficult to overlook when someone is giving you this kind of undressing.

Sam's father's arm is slung over the kid’s shoulder. It's an amazing feeling to be favored that way, but it’s been a long time since Sam basked in the glow of John Winchester's devoted confidence.

He avoids the kid's eyes and leans down to embrace Jo. She reaches up around his neck before deciding that lower would be better. Sam fumbles, too, unsure of how tight is too tight to squeeze the petite girl. It's been so long since he hugged own little sister he doesn't know how to do it anymore. He whispers an apology to his mother and she rests a hand on his arm. Sam kisses her cheek before making a beeline for the exit.

Even with his brisk steps between the tidy rhododendrons, he hasn’t made it down the walkway when the front door opens behind him. He turns, expecting to see his mother or JoAnna, not his father’s new pet leering back at him.

“Hey, I’m Dean … Miller,” he says as if the last name was Bond.

Sam shifts on his feet, uneasy under the weight of Dean’s gaze as it travels the length of his body again. His eyes linger at Sam's crotch and he licks his pretty plump lips. Sam purses his and shakes the warm hand thrust out at him. “Sam. Winchester.”

The boy’s mossy-clear eyes pop wide. “Winchester? As in … You related to Coach or something?”

“Or something.” Sam attempts a curt smile that shrivels before it can land. “Bye, Dean.”

Sam folds himself into his car and drives off without looking back.  
  
***  
  
He presses the door shut behind him and tries to peer through the darkness. It would be beyond fantastic if Castiel is asleep.

Sam whispers. No reply is forthcoming.

In the living room, he flips on the light. His breath halts, hand covers his gaping mouth as he surveys the carnage.

The glass coffee table is in thick shards, shattered by the handmade clay vase that had served as a centerpiece. That is broken as well; the two were obviously used to destroy one another. Purple and orange rose petals are strewn all around the jagged bits. Someone could call this a work of art. Of course, the installment would have to include the bloody footprints that lead across the eggshell carpet and onto the balcony. The piece could be titled ‘Fury.’

Castiel is visible through the glass door as he gazes down at the parking lot with a half-empty bottle in one hand. There is only one black calf sock on his milk-white body. He's otherwise naked. This man is the truly disturbing masterpiece. Sam hasn’t worked out a title for that exhibit yet. Nothing seems adequate.

Sam grabs the grey cashmere blanket from the back of the black, Italian leather sofa that Cas picked out when they’d moved in. Everything in the apartment-- the blanket, the sofa, the demolished table and vase -- it all reflects Castiel’s taste and Sam’s money.

Sam steps behind his shivering, nude lunatic of a boyfriend and attempts to wrap the blanket around him. “Come on. It’s cold.”  
Castiel spins before Sam’s arms close. He yanks the cover out of Sam’s hands and drops it over the railing letting the fabric flutter eleven stories to the ground.

“Don’t you fucking touch me.” Cas storms into the apartment.

“I’m sorry.” Sam lunges forward to jam his foot onto the track of the sliding glass door as Castiel tries to drag it shut.

Experience has taught that Cas has no qualms about locking him out overnight. The last time that happened, it had been too cold to wait out Castiel’s volatile temper. Sam had climbed over to Mrs. Kimball’s balcony and pretended that he'd locked himself out by mistake. Then, he'd stood in the hall, in his jersey briefs, knocking on his own door, muttering apologies for over an hour, until Castiel relented and let him back in.  
Good times.

It doesn’t take much energy for Sam to hold the door open; they are not matched in physical strength. “I needed to see for myself what the atmosphere was. They’re not ready.”

Castiel strains for a moment, still trying to slam it. Then he lets go. Once Sam is inside, a bottle flies at his head. He ducks in time to avoid a trip to the ER. The glass smashes against the wall behind him. Bordeaux splashes on the ruffled clam wallpaper; slivers on the eggshell carpet are emerald, like Dean's eyes.

"You! You’re not ready," Castiel shrieks in Sam's face, snapping him back to this reality. "It’s you, you fucking coward.”

“You’re right. It’s me. Okay? I’m sorry.” Sam’s fingers slide over Cas' arms, but he slips away.

A door somewhere else in the apartment slams shut. Sam stands, stunned, in the torn-apart living room. He winces at the muted sounds of Cas raging, screaming and breaking more of their exquisite, expensive belongings.

Sam holds together two complementary fragments of the shattered vase in a futile attempt to salvage something from all this wreckage.

***

When Dean drags himself through the door the sounds of some game show rerun floats in from the next room: cheering, beeps and dings. He drops the cord with his key on the kitchen table and loosens the green noose Jo Winchester’s had tied around his neck.

Jody is sprawled on the ratty, piss-smelling, thrift store sofa. She doesn’t even try to make space for him. “Where ya been, D?”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “Move.”

When she still doesn’t budge, Dean grabs her legs and hoists them to the front of the sofa so he can sit down. The tattered hem of her jean skirt rides up her thighs. She squirms and tries to kick, but he holds her ankles together with his hands.

“You little shit.”

“Yeah?” Dean pounces and pins both of her shoulders back, smirking down. “Dude, your breath is foul.”

She opens her mouth wide to puff the disgusting odor up into his face. A styrofoam box lays open on the floor with a plastic spork sticking out of three-day-old lo mein.

“You’re so gross. I can’t believe you ate that. I’m not taking your ass to the emergency room.”

Jody smiles up and wipes a cool hand over his forehead. When the music on the screen changes, she turns back to the TV and shoves him. “Get up. My show’s back on.”

Dean slumps back, rubbing one of his tired eyes with a balled up fist. “Jojo. I’m in love.”

“You’re always in love.” She prods him with her bare foot.

“Yeah, I know. But I mean it this time.”

“‘Course, you do." She crosses her legs over his lap. "And what is the cure for love?"

“Fucking,” Dean answers by heart, the same as if you had asked him to recite his ABCs.

“That’s right. Never forget it. So, fuck her and be done with it.” Jody's not even looking at him.

She’s only got eyes for Steve Harvey.

Dean tickles her behind a stubbly knee. “You need to shave. And it's not a her. It's this tasty straight guy.”

“Same thing. If you think you’re in love, the fault is yours.”

“I’m not in love; I'm not stupid. But I do want to fuck him.” He points to the moron on the television. “That is a stupid guess.”

“Horny boy.” Jody grins and ruffles his hair.

He swats her hand away. “Shut up.”

“Well, what’s his name, lovesick puppy?”

Dean rolls it around on his tongue for a moment, like he hasn’t been saying it to himself for hours already. He tries not to smile, but it doesn’t work. “Sam.”


	3. Chapter 3

MONDAY

On his way up the hall, Dean keeps peeking over his shoulder and runs smack into this kid from the team. The only reason Dean remembers his name is because it's a cool one: Ash.  _His mullet does not belong in the 21st century, but he's okay otherwise._ “Dude.”

Dean raises both of his hands in apology. “My bad. Hey, look. I been meaning to talk to you. No hard feelings?”

Ash furrows his brow in a severe scowl before his expression melts into easy laughter. “What about? Dude. No way, man. You’re the best fucking QB I'll ever have the pleasure of being benched for. We’re cool, man.”

“Cool.”

Ash puts a fist in the air and grunts, “Gator pride.”

“Right.” Dean bumps the fist and watches until Ash spins at the corner and holds up the universal sign for rock n roll with both hands.

Once the hall is clear, picking the lock and slipping into the coach’s office is cake. 

Every few seconds, he raises his head to check out the door. He hisses in a breath as he tries to keep the middle drawer from squeaking like a mouse on crack.

“Shut up!” Dean whispers to the wood and puts a bit of weight into the process to quiet it.

Once open: nothing. He sucks his teeth and shoves aside a useless stack of papers and rattling pens. There is a treasure trove of candy and old wrappers hidden underneath them. Contraband, but not what he is looking for. He swears and shuts the drawer far more easily than he’d opened it.

Still watching the door, he tries a side drawer next. 

It's not going to be there, but Dean opens the one below it. There, he finds a manila folder with a hairy bush porno magazine inside. He picks it up and chuckles. “Dirty old bastard.”

Beneath that, Dean discovers a silver flask which he starts to unscrew out of curiosity … just as the door creaks.

The coach’s eyes narrow. Dean freezes and waits for the busting of balls. 

The coach closes the door behind himself, tilts back his head and takes a deep breath. “You want to explain, son? Or should I assume?”

Dean tosses the flask on the desk and raises his hands like he is under arrest. “Go ahead and assume.”

“Wait here.” Coach Winchester sighs and hangs his jacket over his chair. 

When the door shuts behind him, Dean digs through the old man’s coat pocket, his hand clenches around the cell phone. He subdues an annoyed growl. “Fucking moron.”

He wastes no time in pulling the flip phone out. “They still make these?”

It takes a minute to figure out how to use the ancient thing. Then Dean scrolls through the coach’s contact: Brady, Jo, Mary, and School. That is it.

However the coach plans to punish him, Dean is royally screwed. All for nothing. Both fists raise to the ceiling. “Fuuuuck.”

 

***

 

Mary Winchester is a 46-year-old version of Jo, which means MILF. She clasps her hands, manicured pointer fingers extended in front of her burgundy lips. “Well, I guess you can start by taking out the trash?”

The bin's contents consist of today’s newspaper, some coffee grinds and a couple of eggshells. Dean lifts the plastic bag and makes his way out of the kitchen door. Before he even drops it, Jo stomps out of the garage. Her hair is in two thick braids that hang over her shoulders like Dorothy Gale. Flower-sweet, little girl perfume wafts at him as Jo marches over and punches him in the arm. 

It doesn’t hurt, but he rubs it for show. “Ow?”

Her eyes flicker to the spot she hit for a moment before she shakes her head. “Idiot.”

“Yeah. I know.” Dean drops the lid.

She folds her arms over her chest. “My dad said all you would have had to do was ask him… for anything.”

Dean sighs. It’s not like he can explain himself.

“I think you'd pretty much have to kill someone before he puts you off the team.” Jo lodges herself between him and the door.

“No. I’m just your mother’s personal slave.” Dean pushes her, gently, but firmly, the fuck out of his way.

He steps back into the kitchen, rubbing his hands together. “Mission accomplished.”

Mrs. Winchester waits in one of those white skirt aprons June Cleaver always has on. “Okay. I think I have a job for you. Would you go get JoAnna, please?”

Dean had just escaped JoAnna, but the agreement was: Mrs. Winchester says hop, Dean makes like a rabbit. He rolls his eyes and trudges through the parlor and up the stairs. “Jo. Your mom is looking for you.”

“Out in a second,” she shouts from down the hall. 

He nods and begins to head back to the kitchen when he notices a bedroom with baby pink wallpaper and Justin Bieber posters.

That kid thinks he’s hardcore because he got sometattoos. Dean will merrily kick his pop-singing Canadian ass if he ever gets the chance.

In the middle of the fluffy bedspread, a Hello Kitty cell phone case twinkles like the Holy Grail. Dean glances over his shoulder before he creeps into the room and taps the screen. 

Password protected. Of course. “Fucking Winchesters.”

“What are you doing?”

He spins on his heels. “Where are you on panty sniffing?”

“Kids!” Jo’s mom’s voice rings out with improbably good timing.

Dean’s hand sweeps out to point the way: ladies first. Then, he swipes it down his face in relief.

“Hands washed, Dean?” Mrs. Winchester gives Jo a pink apron with her name embroidered over her heart.

“Yes, ma’am,” he lies.

“Show me.”

“Seriously?” He rests his hands, palms up in her outstretched hands for inspection.

She gives a little sniff before she’s satisfied.

“Happy?”

“Don’t sass me, young man.” She flips his hands and gives them a light tap.

“Sorry.”

“Mmhm. Now, hand me the flour.”

“Flour,” Dean repeats it and pores over through the steel containers on the marble-topped kitchen island.

He carries the canister over to Mrs. Winchester. Did that good. 

The next instruction is to measure out four cups and pour them through the sifter. Dean pours as if he's working with corrosives in Chemistry.

“What is this stuff?” He rubs the powdery substance between his fingertips and thumb.

“It’s flour,” Jo answers, rolling her eyes.

Her mother nudges her. “The most basic ingredient in bread and cake and cookies. Ground up wheat.”

“Hm.”

Mrs. Winchester guides him through the recipe while Jo stands with her fist over her mouth, pretending to try to hide her giggles. Her mother scowls and tells her to grease up the trays. “So, Dean, what do your parents do?”

Dean mulls it over. His parents. Right. Sometimes, he forgets that he has one of those. “Um. My mother’s a hairdresser.”

“I could use a trim.”

After the spooned dollops of cookie dough are in the oven, Jo insists on teaching Dean how to play Checkers. By the middle of the second game, he's winning, when a scent straight out of Heaven derails all trains of thought. He sniffs the air and rises from his seat like a cartoon character dragged along by a curling finger of fragrant steam.

“Oh, my God. That is amazing.” He crouches in front of the oven and presses his palms to the glass.

Mrs. Winchester smiles. “Have you never had homemade cookies, Dean?”

Dean takes one look at her. The smug little smile breaks the cookie-smell spell. “So, like, not having homemade cookies is how you breed criminals?”

“Not what I'm suggesting at all.”

“I should head out.” 

These Stepford people always think they know everything. All this fucking trouble for nothing. Unless he asks outright, Dean is never going to get what he’s been looking for. He met That Guy once, and it's time to knock it off with the stalker craziness. 

Coach's wife won’t let up, though. “I want you to wait and take somehome with you.”

Jo’s head snaps back and forth between them like she’s watching a tennis match.

“I think my sentence is complete for today.” Dean’s jaw clenches tight. 

He's had it with these people’s charity. The only thing to do is go home and suffer in peace.

“Your sentence is done when I say it is, Dean.” 

“So, you’re going to force me to eat cookies?”

Her eyelashes bat. “If I have to, yes. JoAnna, don't you have somehomework left?”

Jo gawps up at Dean with wide eyes before she traipses off like an obedient little lap dog.

“I’ll have you on your way in a moment," Mrs. Winchester says. "In the meantime, you can bring me my cell phone from the table by the front door?”

What is he, a slave?

She could go choke on her cookies.

But he'd created this mess, so Dean sucks his teeth and does as he's told. 

Mrs. Winchester's screen saver is a photo of Coach and Jo all dressed up. Dean presses the button, and he's in. 

Towards the bottom of her contact list is a telephone number for Sam.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean strips down to his boxers and lounges in the middle of the bed. The screen of his cell is all cracked to hell, but it works. He'd been hunting for Sam’s phone number; the picture is a massive bonus. He switches between covering one half, then the other half of the snapshot with his hand. 

Jody drops her purse on the floor and kicks off her shoes. “Get the hell out of my bed, you hooligan.”

For that, she gets the finger as Dean zooms in on Sam’s face. Then, he slides it over to look at the pixilated image of Jo.

Jody collapses on her belly beside him with a heavy sigh. She yawns and jabs him with cold toes. “Tired as fuck. Why don't you be a good boy and rub my feet?”

“Rub your own feet.” 

She snatches the phone and points until Dean rolls his eyes and gets to work. 

She's wearing the same jean skirt with the tattered hem that she wears most days. The way she lays, flashes an unwanted glimpse of the blue lace trim on her panties. He kneads while Jody studies his phone. “The girl is cute. She looks sweet.”

“She is.”

“Stiff competition, but no match for my boy,” Jody declares like she’s at a pep rally.

“That's his sister.”

“That should make it easier.”

“Give me that.” He reclaims the phone and tosses himself down, this time on his stomach. “Hey, you know what flour is?”

Jody sits up and continues massaging her own feet. “Like, flour? For baking?”

“Yeah, exactly. You know about that?”

She snickers. "And I'm crazy? What? You didn't know what flour is?”

“How would I …  Whatever. What should I write to Sam?”

“Whatever you're thinking.” Jody crosses the tiny room to the rickety dresser they'd found on the side of the road. 

It had been hell getting that thing into the apartment, just the two of them.

“What I’m thinking is 'Come fuck me right now.'” He articulates each word as he thumbs the message into his phone.

Jody pulls her shirt over her head and sits on the bed. “Get this and get lost. I need sleep.”

Dean uses one hand to loosen her bra. “Come on. You have to help me. What should I write?”

“Stop being a pussy about it, Dean. Write whatever you kids say to each other. ‘What’s up, dude? Wanna screw?’” She crawls on the bed dressed in a long T-shirt and slaps his ass.

“He's not a kid. He's old, like you.”

“Fuck you.” She flops onto her belly next to him. “How old?”

“I don't know. Thirty, maybe.”

“Thirty? Dean. Jesus. You're gonna get the guy locked up.”

“Why? You calling the cops?”

“No, I'm just saying." Jody squints at the picture. "What does he want with a kid your age?”

Dean looks straight at her. “I know what you're thinking, and it's not like that. For one thing, no matter what we do, Sam’s not going to knock me up.” He flips to face the ceiling and stares up at the phone again. “I’m going to start with ‘Hi.’ Or ‘Hey.’ Is ‘Hi’ or ‘Hey’ better?”

Jody points at the image. “How did I miss that fat neck? Is this a coach, Dean? He looks like a football player.”

He yanks the phone away and sits up on the edge of the bed with his feet on the cold floor. “No.” 

He can't quit staring at the photo. Sam looks a little stressed, but there's something about him Dean couldn't put into words if he tried.

“So, we’re going through that again?”

“Would you, please, stop worrying? I got it covered.”

“How am I supposed to stop worrying, Dean? This is how he found us last time. You and fucking football.” Her voice quivers on the last word.

“Well, what if he can trace police records, too?”

“Then stay the fuck out of TROUBLE!” She punches him in the side.

Dean grips his ribs. “I will because I’ll be too busy training.”

“You know, it would be fine if you could just play, have fun and blend in. But no. You have to be the crackerjack hot shot. You have to wind up in the paper. Why don’t you send up a smoke signal for fuck’s sake?” Jody stands and stomps over to her piece of shit dresser.

Attention is no big deal. Dean gets it whether he likes it or not, so he rolls with it. Sometimes, maybe, he goes after it, but that's not why he plays football. He plays to stay sane. There's no point trying to explain.

Jody’s hands tremble as she shakes a cigarette from the pack. She points with it between her fingers. “You’re a fucking showoff is your problem. Well, he’s not just going to come for you, you know? And I’m not ready to die. Quit with the fucking football.”

Dean sighs. “Mom, I swear to you: He will not find us. Not ever again. And if he does, I’ll deal with it.”


	5. Chapter 5

Sam's eyes remain trained on the spreadsheet in front of him, even as a frigid claw slithers across his neck, under his shirt, and down his chest. He catches Castiel's other hand as it pries at the button of his pants. “I’m going to need at least another couple of hours.”  
“That’s what you said a couple of hours ago,” Castiel hisses into his ear and nibbles.  
Sam stretches away from the teeth. “It’s a big project. You shouldn’t wait up.”  
“Then you should put me to bed.”  
Sam sighs and swivels his chair around. Castiel pushes Sam’s glasses up onto his hair and crawls into his lap reeking of booze. When Sam flinches to avoid a smelly kiss, Castiel seizes his chin between thumb and forefinger. “Fuck me and I’ll leave you alone.”  
Castiel will never leave him alone.  
Sheet by sheet, Sam stacks his papers aside. He lifts his giggling boyfriend from his lap onto the edge of the desk in one easy motion. Castiel wraps his jean-clad legs around Sam’s waist. “My tiger.” His hips buck as Sam opens his zipper.  
He holds himself off the desktop to allow Sam to remove his pants. Sam locks his gaze with dull blue eyes and grabs a fistful of Castiel’s cock.  
“You fucker.” Cas shoves him away. The lust on his face becomes unmistakable rage.  
“I’m sorry.”  
“No, you’re not.” Castiel paws at the wet trail of mascara already soiling his cheek. “Why would you do that?”  
“I told you, I’m sorry. I ... got carried away.”  
“You did it on purpose.” He tucks his chin into his chest and sobs like a child.  
Sam runs a hand through his own hair, knocking his glasses to the floor. “Cas, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to touch you there. I just … thought you might like it.”  
The sobs morph into a savage growl. “You know I don’t like it. You know how much I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.” Castiel punctuates his anger with punches to his own crotch. He gasps with the pain and cries again, this time with his head bowed.  
Sam is paralyzed. To comfort Castiel would be the right thing to do, but the only thing Cas ever seems to want is Sam’s cock up his ass. That is contrary to what Sam wants, which is for Castiel to leave.  
So, he watches the breakdown from halfway across the room with one arm wrapped around his own body and the other hand covering his mouth.  
The electronic melody is not one he hears often. It's like liquid light cascading down a gentle slope: a pleasant, relaxing tune  at odds with the ferocious look on Castiel’s face when he glares over at Sam’s phone. “Who is Dean?”  
“I don't know.”  
“Dean Miller.”  
“Oh.” Sam winces as the name rings his bell. “He’s a kid.”  
“What does he want with you?”  
“I don't know.” That’s not true. Dean wasn't subtle about what he wants.  
“Are you fucking him?” Saliva sprays from Cas’ mouth along with the accusation.  
“Castiel.”  
“I will murder that bitch. I will gut him and hang him from the fucking balcony.” He speaks like he’s planning what to have for breakfast.  
“Cas, calm down.”  
“WHY DON’T YOU FUCKING CALM DOWN? Huh?” With one sweep of his arm, all of Sam’s work papers and the phone flutter to the floor.  
Sam glances down at the mess but doesn’t dare to move, as if he were facing a rattlesnake.  
“Is he pretty? Hm?" Castiel stalks down from the desk, ripping papers as he steps over them. "Is he prettier than me? Younger? How old is he, Sam? HOW OLD?”  
“I don't know. Young. High school, probably.”  
He says ‘probably,’ although it's clear that Dean is his father’s new golden boy. John Winchester doesn’t chum up with kids who can’t throw straight. He worships talent the way his son clings to misery.  
In unison with Sam’s silent self-condemnation, Castiel snorts, “Jesus. You fucking pervert.”  
“It's not like that.”  
“Is that what you want? Some hairless, little pussy you can push around and make do whatever you want? Am I too old for you, Sam? Is that why you don’t love me anymore?” Black tears streak his face like something from a horror film.  
“Cas.”  
Castiel drops himself cross-legged onto the pile of papers. Then, he hurls the phone. “Answer him.”  
Sam nearly fumbles, but catches it. He stares down at the screen.  
“Does he call you Daddy? Huh? Sit on your face with his tight, little, pink pussy?” Castiel crawls through the mess and wipes his polluted tears onto Sam’s pants leg.  
It’s safe to assume that the stain will never come out. His hand hovers as if to stroke Castiel’s hair, but he drops it again by his own side.  
“I want to watch you sexting with your boy.” He gropes at Sam's crotch. "Does he make you hot?"  
Sam brushes the hand away. “It’s not like that, Castiel.”  
“No? Then, what's it like? Answer him, and I'll see for myself what it's like.” He curls his arms around Sam's leg.  
Sam tries to push him away, but Castiel bites into the meat of his thigh.

“Ow! Stop it. I just met this kid. I have no idea why he’s writing me. I don’t even know how he got my number, okay?”  
Castiel tugs hard on his slacks. “Met him where, Sam? You go to work, you come home.”  
That is only because Castiel pitches a fit any time Sam tries to do anything other than go to work and come home. He isn’t allowed to have friends or go out or engage in any kind of activity that doesn’t include Castiel. And, frankly, Castiel is too unpredictable to take out. That always backfires into some horrendous scene. So, Sam goes to work and comes home.  
He finally sighs and kneels. “He was at my father's party.”  
“Oh. A sweet little kicker. I’ll make you watch me slit his throat.” His hands crawl like spiders over Sam’s face.  
“Would you stop it with that? I'm not sleeping with this kid, Cas.”  
“ANSWER HIM!”  
“FINE!” Sam’s phone lights up when he taps the screen.  
   UNKNOWN: Hey Sam. Dean Miller  
Sam holds his breath and types back.  
   SW: Hello, Dean.  
It takes less than a minute for him to answer.  
   UNKNOWN:  HIG  
He frowns over at Castiel. “I don’t know what that means.”  
   SW: ?  
   UNKNOWN: Hows it going  
“Oh.”  
   SW: Going ok.  Not a good time, buddy  
“Tell him to send a picture of his hairless--"  
“Castiel, I swear to God.” Sam grinds his teeth. He would never hit Cas, ever, in a million years. But he often fantasizes.  
   UNKNOWN: K.  
   UNKNOWN: TTYL  
Sam exhales and turns the phone to show Castiel the thread of innocuous messages.  
Cas tosses it away and caresses Sam’s face. “I'm sorry, Sammy. I'm so sorry. I’m so stupid. I know you don’t want any baby pussy. Let me make it up to you.”  
“Forget it.” Sam stands up and tries to help Castiel do the same.  
He refuses to stand. Prefers to remain on his knees in front of Sam so that he can claw at the button of his pants.  
“Cas, no. Just get up.”  
“Let me. Sammy. Let me. Please. I'm so stupid. I just want to make you feel good. Please, let me. Don’t be angry. Let me take care of you.”  
Sam closes his eyes as Castiel slurps and slathers at him. Five minutes later, he gazes up and spits out Sam's still flaccid penis. “Don’t you love me anymore, baby?”  
Sam peers down at the ink stains gathering around bloodshot, storm-blue eyes and can’t stop himself from stroking chasm-black hair and murmuring, “Of course, I do.”


	6. Chapter 6

Dean scratches his balls and snarls at Sam's reply. 

   SW: Not a good time, buddy.

“Buddy?" 

The guy might as well curse him out.  Dean's leg drops from the back of the couch and he stuffs the phone under his pillow. 

Jody is already at the kitchen table, scratching off lottery tickets.  A cigarette bobs between her lips when she says, “Morning, sunshine.”

Dean groans into the mostly-empty fridge and each of the bare cabinets.  In a moment of clarity, he snaps his fingers and smiles.  His backpack is still hanging from the other chair.  This way be treasure.  He unzips it and his face falls.  His head snaps around, glancing again at the table.

There it is.  Well, sort of.  Mary Winchester's plastic container is there.  His name is still written on the top in flawless cursive with fuchsia Sharpie.  And it’s empty as the fucking cabinets.

He takes a deep breath, trying to stop his lips from quivering.  His throat locks up so tight that he can hardly form the words.  “Dude.  You did not eat my cookies.”

“Don’t call me dude.”

“Did you eat my cookies, Jody?”

She snickers.  “You look like Peter Pan.”

Dean drops his hands from his hips and bashes a fist on the table.  It makes her jump, but isn’t as rewarding as it should be.  “Jody, did you eat my fucking cookies or what?”

“They were really good, too.  You got a little girlfriend baking for you now?  I thought you were sucking dicks this week.”

Deep breathing doesn't work on the verge of hyperventilating.  He had baked those cookies his-fucking-self.  “Are you serious?  That was my breakfast.”

“Eat something else.”

“There  _ is  _ nothing else!” He's not exaggerating. 

Dean knows about the fucking hunger games, for real, and he is not picky.  He would make a ketchup sandwich if there was bread.

Jody lifts her hips in her chair, reaches into her pocket and produces a crumpled one dollar bill which she flicks across the table.  “There.  Go get yourself some hash browns or something and quit bitching at me.  Jesus.”

Dean tosses up his hands and leaves the kitchen before he gives in to the urge to bludgeon his mother to death with that Tupperware.

 

***

 

Dean gives his roaring stomach a reassuring pat as he pushes through the double doors.  He’s done hollow days before.  It ain’t fun, but nobody starves in one day.

A trio of giggling girls pass.  One of them even has the rocks to meet his eyes.  Not the cute one, but still.  He tosses his chin up.  “Ladies.”

It has the desired effect.  The whole gaggle of them squeals and bumps shoulders.  Girls are a riot.  Dean snickers to himself and almost forgets his empty guts.

Even before he turns down D hall, he hears the clanging and laughter.  Another worthy distraction?  As it turns out, Ash has invented a new sport: Nerd Squash.

There don’t seem to be any rules other than shoving the geek back up against the puke green lockers every time he tries to get away.  The kid's whimpering sets off Ash’s growing audience in a series of whoops and cackles and the occasional self-righteous complaint from a passing female.

Ash pushes the beanpole of a boy into the steel doors again.  The kid bounces before he whines.  The surrounding idiots cheer.  Most of them are guys from the team; getting involved would be more stress than it's worth.  The problem is Dean fucking hates bullies.  Always has.

He rolls his eyes and steps between Ash and the kid.

Ash blinks, confused by the interference at first.  Then, he moves aside with a grin, offering a chance to knock the dweeb around.

“What’s the deal here?”

Ash laughs.  “Little morning warm-up.”

Dean nods a greeting at a couple of the guys as they clear off.  The twerp freezes as if some invisible force is pinning him there.

“Why are you fucking with this kid?”

Ash gestures.  “Look at him.”

Dean gives the squash ball/sweaty dork a once over.  He’s skin and bones with too-big eyes in a too-small head; he’s got a pointy, crooked nose, and his neck is about half a foot too long to be on a human body.

There's a starved, homeless appeal to him like this mutt Dean had tried to feed in Pensacola, back when he was 8 years old.  For the longest time, that damn thing had been too shell-shocked to come to him even for food.  Dean had named it FUBAR.  After a week, she was gone anyway.

He looks at the chump and points down the hall.  “Scram.”

His sneakers squeak on the linoleum as he dodges oncoming students.  He only slows to scoop up his backpack.  Ash frowns at his scurrying prey. 

“The bell’s going to ring in like 3 minutes, man.  You get detention, Coach rips all our asses.”

Ash nods and claps Dean’s shoulder.  He runs off, too, but in the opposite direction.  Dean shakes his head, takes his own advice and gets to class.

 

** *** **

 

Coffee strings Sam out.  So does black tea.  That's why he brings his own strainers and decaffeinated, loose-leaf oolong from home.  Steam curls up over the mug in his hand while his coworkers prattle on about some show he doesn’t watch.  Their voices blend with the clack of calculators, the crunch of staplers, the scrape of tape.

The file waiting at his desk is nothing dreadful.  Still, he lingers by the coffee table with unfocused eyes, twirling a plastic spoon in his cup, even though he doesn’t take sugar.  Natural sweeteners also string him out.  The artificial ones are carcinogenic.

His mind wanders back to Dean’s eyes glinting in the dwindling sunlight.  He remembers as clearly as if he had been gazing into them when he woke up this morning: viridescent crystal he’ll probably never see again.  Surprised by the sudden sinking feeling at that thought, he huffs to himself, tucks the spoon into his pocket.  He'll take it home and recycle.

Dean's number is still in his phone.  Sam could call him back or send a text message, but what good could come from that?  He returns to his cubicle and gets to work.

 

***

 

Dean stares out at the field as the rain batters the glass.  There won’t be practice in an outright downpour.  The teacher drones on like she's trying out for Charlie Brown.  His stomach growls.  A wad of gum from underneath his desk is now stuck to his pants leg. 

This day is fucked.

He slouches down so he can hide his cell behind the desk.

   DS: GAS

 

***

 

Sam always works with his head down and earbuds in.  Immersed as he is, he notices out of the corner of his eye when his phone lights up.

 

***

 

Dean’s pocket buzzes and a flash sparks in the center of his chest.

   SW: What?

So Sam is a dick.

_ What? As in, what do you want, you little piece of shit? _

But maybe not.  Maybe he doesn’t get the abbreviation.  _ He is old, after all.   
_

   DS: Got a sec

   SW: Working

   DS: Wt do u do

   SW: Accounting

   DS: Snds tuff.  U shd tk a brk

   SW: Aren’t you supposed to be in school?

   DW: Am. Trig is tuf.  Im tkng a brk

   SW: In the middle of something

Dean rolls his eyes and stuffs the phone back in his pocket.  A minute later, his pants vibrate.

   SW: I get off at 9. Msg me then, if you want

 

***

 

Sam slips a few folders into his briefcase and shuts down his computer.  He picks his phone up from his desk.  The office is mostly dark and his will be the last lamp extinguished, like most nights.

The kid won't message again.  Sam doesn't even know if he wants him to.  _ What good reason is there for talking to this kid? _ With that in mind, he switches the setting from mute to ring and carries it in his hand.  His shoes echo through the empty parking garage.

 

***

 

Dean lounges on his couch with his stomach in a knot that is, maybe, not hunger related.  He picks up his phone for the fifth time and puts it back down.  “What are you, a fucking girl?”

He sits up and turns up the theme song to Dukes of Hazzard.  Soon, his sweetheart, Daisy will be there and everything’ll be right with the world.

 

***

 

The engine turns over.  Vivaldi springs to life from the speakers.  The phone waits in his passenger’s seat as Sam pulls from his space.  At a red light, he gives it another peek.  The windshield wipers whip out of time to the music.  Sam turns them down.  The storm is passing over.

 

***

 

Dean groans at a Lucky Charms commercial.  He'd give both his nuts for some cereal right about now.  Okay, maybe just one, but still. 

He picks up his phone again.

 

***

 

As he walks up the wet pavement to his building, that charming melody lights up Sam pocket.  Sam stops in his tracks and sighs.

   DS: Now good?

“No,” he answers out loud.

   SW: Not really.  Have a good night.

He powers down the phone before continuing into the apartment.  


	7. Chapter 7

Dean wipes his tongue with the back of his arm, but can’t get rid of the nasty acid tang. He digs his phone from under his pillow. It’s set to ring in ten minutes anyway, so he lays there and blinks at the cracks in the ceiling, up early with nothing to look forward to.  
The whole building could crash in on his head and the only other person in the world who would give a crap is in the other room snoring so loudly he can hear her through the walls.  
He sings under his breath. “Happy birthday, fucking loser … “</p>  
He can't even enjoy his morning piss. The toilet clogs, like it does every third day, because the plumbing in this place is shit. Dean’s entire life is shit.  
“No, no, no. Come on, please.”  
He considers shouting out that it’s his birthday, for fuck’s sake, but toilets don’t respond to that kind of information. Filthy water rises until it’s splashing his toes. “Aw, gross.”  
Of course, they don’t own a plunger, because when he asks for one, Jody says they won’t be here long enough to justify the purchase. Usually, he uses a hanger, but the water doesn’t usually rise within seconds to the point that it starts flooding the bathroom.  
Kneeling in a puddle of sewage, Dean holds his breath and digs around in the neck of the thing with his bare hand. His fingers squish something that has to be a mega-turd and he gags, which he fucking hates.  
The only thing that keeps him from yacking all over the floor is the knowledge that he would have to clean it up.  
Eventually, the water goes down. So begins another day in paradise.  
  
***  
  
Around noon, while other people break off into chatty groups, Sam pulls a bowl of salad out of his temperature-controlled bag and eats hunched over his work.  
  
  
***  
  
Jo waits behind the door with her arms folded when Dean shuts his locker. He swings his bag onto his shoulder. “JoAnna Beth.”  
She keeps pace alongside him. “I texted you in second period and, like, ten times during math.”  
“I left my phone at home.”  
She squints, skeptical. “On purpose?”  
“I needed a break.”  
She shudders dramatically. “I would lose my mind without my phone.”  
“Some things are actually worse.” Like chasing after some guy who obviously doesn’t want to talk to you. “I’ll write you back tonight, okay?”  
The loud, clanking thud of someone punching a locker grows louder as he turns the corner. It would be safe to bet some jerk has lost his temper, but it comes from inside of a locker, along with quiet blubbering for help.  
A few people snicker as they pass. Most aren't interested. Dean knocks on the door.  
“Oh thank god,” the locker pants. “I’m mildly claustrophobic and--”  
“All right, all right. What’s your combo?”  
Dean has been in high schools all around this great nation and one thing is universally true: little guys get no respect. But the guy who spills onto the floor is not little. The same scrappy-looking kid Ash was picking on this morning is as tall as Dean, but it doesn't matter. He’s on his knees, chest heaving like he can barely catch his breath. Dean winces down at him. “You need to go to the nurse or something?”  
“No. Oh. Thank you. Oh, thank you. Thank you so much.” He crawls over, groveling.  
“All right.” Dean steps away from his graspy paws.  
The boy lean his weight against the wall and drags himself to his feet.  
Dean looks in both directions to see if anybody is watching this madness. “What’s your name, dude?”  
“Uh. Garth, sir.”  
“Don’t call me sir.”  
“Aren’t you a football player? Sir?”  
“Yeah.”  
“The guys say...”  
“Well, I say, don’t.”  
Garth’s beady eyes get all wide, like that elf-thing in Harry Potter right after it gets a sock. That’s what the kid looks like: an overgrown house elf.  “Would you just …  I don’t know, man," Dean says. "Get out of here.”  
  
In the boys’ locker room, he tosses his bag into the bottom of his compartment and starts to change. Ash pats his ass on the way out to the field. Dean stiffens, but doesn’t say anything.  
The moment he joins his teammates at the starting line, the coach’s whistle screeches and he motions. “Get over here, Smith.”  
The guys next to him laugh like idiots at Dean's impending doom.  
“The rest of you, move out.” Two quick tuts of the whistle and they take off.  
Dean jogs over to the coach, cursing himself for whatever way he’s fucked up this time. “Yes, sir?”  
The old man looks pissed, too. His face is all scrunched up like he’s crapping in his pants. “I need you to run into my office and grab something from my desk.”  
Dean stares at the key on the lanyard the coach has placed in his hand. “What is it, sir?”  
“You’ll know. Get it and come right back.”  
“Yes, sir.” He jogs off, wracking his brain the whole way.  
He was falsely accused of spitballs in English two days ago, but the kid who did it got busted and Dean was let off the hook.  
It’s mostly been an uneventful day; better to keep it that way. He hesitates at the coach’s door before he opens it, flicks on the light and gapes at a chocolate cupcake with a single green candle. The coach’s desk is otherwise empty, except for the name plate and a book of matches.  
Rainbow sprinkles, clowns on the baking paper. The matches are from McGinty’s. Dean’s never been in there, but it’s the dump where Jody goes after work.  
He lights the candle and watches the flame flicker until green wax drips and hardens all over the nut-brown icing. Then he puffs out the fire. His nostrils flare, he chews the hell out of his bottom lip, scratches the corner of his right eye. “You fucking baby.”  
He peels back the clowns from the bottom and takes a small bite. It’s a chocolate cupcake. What’s not to like? Except that it's choking him up. Jody ignores birthdays and Dean can’t remember the last time anybody remembered. He can’t even swallow around the golf ball in his throat and winds up spitting his bite into the steel trash can. Bending down, he rifles around to shuffle some papers over it.  
After a quick detour to the cafeteria to make sure Coach Winchester never learns that he’s tossed the thing, Dean returns back to the field. He stands beside the old man, watching his teammates circle the track.  
“I know you like to be private.”  
Dean nods. “You didn't tell Jo?”  
“I figured you would tell her if you wanted her to know.” Coach Winchester doesn’t turn to face him.  
He checks his watch and makes a few marks on his clipboard.  
Dean should thank him. He wants to say it. Something is obstructing his windpipe again. The only thing that would be worse than bursting into tears in front of his coach would be bursting into tears in front of the team and his coach. A couple of guys are coming around the bend towards them. Dean nods again and takes off running.  
  
***  
  
Mary shows him which tomatoes to pick for a sauce, which they prepare from scratch to go along with the meatloaf, also from scratch. Dean spends most of dinner rolling his eyes back in his head, moaning like he's about to have an orgasm.  
He doesn’t thank her for the cupcake, though, and she doesn’t mention it.  
Dean strolls home from the Winchester’s whistling Back in Black. He's playing the solo on air guitar when he kicks the door shut behind him. The music stops when he comes face to face with the cell phone lying on the kitchen table like a hand grenade.  
He shakes his head, willing himself not to touch the thing for a few more minutes.  
By some miracle, he finds a six pack of Michelob Light in the fridge. Maybe she did remember. He treats himself to one and powers up his phone. A note lies on the table. Jody might not make it home tonight. Six messages from Jo Winchester. And one from Sam. Dean’s stomach flips and he pours some beer into it.  
Jo’s texts are about school work and he thumbs in a few quick answers. Then, he carries the phone to the couch, kicks off his shoes and opens Sam’s message.  
At 12:13 PM, he wrote:  
   SW: What class are you in now?  
That was it. Nothing special. Nothing else. Dean studies it for a few seconds and tries to stop his stupid chest from feeling all tight.What kind of loser gets worked up over one sentence?  
He puts the phone down beside him and turns on the TV. Baywatch. That’ll do.  
At each commercial break, he taps the screen and rereads Sam’s message, like it’s going to magically say something different. He falls asleep with the phone in his hand.  
Carmen SanDiego is on at 3:32 AM, when Dean staggers to the bathroom to piss and brush his teeth. Back on the sofa, he kicks off his jeans.  
Then, he texts Sam.  
   DS: U up?

  
***  
  
Sam sets his mug on the desk with a quiet clink. As his computer lights up, he turns on his phone. It dawns on him just how much he had been hoping to hear from this kid when heart flutters at the message. It's not a good sign. Still, he can’t help but smile as he types.  
   SW: Just had my herbal. So yeah, I'm up.  
The reply comes in less than a minute.  
   DS: U smokn at 8 AM?!  
Sam laughs out loud. His cubicle neighbor scowls at him, as if there’s a company policy against happiness. This is their first real time communication and with his suppressed giggles, Sam is acting more like a teenage girl than an adult man.  
Who cares? He hasn't been this giddy in ages.  
   
   SW: Tea  
   DS: Cffe drnkr mslf  
   SW: I could have guessed that  
   DS: Meaning???  
   SW: Let’s just say, you made quite a first impression  
   DS: Do tell  
Sam tilts his head back and forth, searches for just the right words.  
   SW: Self-absorbed spaz  
   DS: Tell me wht u rlly thnk  
Sam laughs out loud again, then apologizes to his frowning neighbor. Then, he takes his phone to the bathroom. With the stall locked behind him, he leans back against it.  
   DS: Wnt my frst mprssn of u?  
He smiles and types:  
   SW: Desperately  
  
***  
  
The teacher is scribbling formulas onto the whiteboard. His classmates’ heads are all down. The test lays out in front of him. Dean hasn't filled in a single answer; hasn’t even written his name.  
He blinks down at his phone.  
  
***  
  
Sam stares down at his phone. His cheeks are starting to hurt with all the smiling. Then, he reads Dean’s answer.  
   DS: Fucking beautiful  
It's like he’s been kicked in the center of his chest, in the pit of his stomach, in his groin. This is a bad idea, on so many levels.  
He flushes the toilet, slips the phone into his pocket, and splashes cold water on his face. In the mirror, he finds no trace of what Dean had seen.  
  
***  
  
Enough time has passed. Sam has gotten the message, and he isn’t going to write back.  
   DS: Clrly nt mtual  
Oh, well. Had to try.  
  
***  
  
Sam stares at those two words until the screen starts to go dark. Then, he taps again and studies them, steadying his breathing. Two words. He’s losing his mind over two words. He waits until they nearly fades before he picks up the phone and deletes every message they’ve exchanged today.  
  
***  
  
This girl across the hall is luscious: the green and white cheerleader uniform, waist-length dark hair, killer legs. There’s a little meat on her, which probably contributes to that amazing rack. She’s smiling at Dean like a warm slice of cherry pie and for once in his life, Dean Miller has no fucking appetite - at least not for what she’s offering.  
What is Sam doing now? Is he going to text back? Should Dean send another message? He could write ‘JK’ or something lame like that.  
Is he ever going to talk to Dean again?  
Probably not. Probably, Dean has completely blown it, because he's a fucking moron.  
Dean tosses the girl a practiced wink, and a ‘maybe later’ smile before he shuts his locker and rolls out.


	8. Chapter 8

Dean supports the sapling while Mrs. Winchester palms dirt around its roots. As usual, his mouth has an idea it didn’t run by his brain first. “So, you and Coach only have the one kid?”  
She frowns up at him, resting her garden-gloved hands on her knees. “Why would you say that?”  
“Oh. I just assumed. You know. There's a ton of pictures of Jo with horses and Jo on the beach and all that. No others. You don't talk about any other kid, so, yeah.” He shrugs, as innocent and nonchalant as possible.  
She returns to caring for her baby tree. Apricot.

Dean mouths the word ‘OK’ to himself. That’s the end of that.  
When they're done, Mrs. Winchester pulls off her gloves. “Would you come with me, please?”

He kicks off his dirty shoes next to hers by the back door and they both trudge up to the master bedroom. Dean had only seen the closed double doors. It's bigger than his entire apartment. His fingers brush over the curtain around the four post, king-sized canopy bed. “Wow. You guys have a fireplace in here?”  
“Have a seat, Dean.” She gestures for him to take a place on the plush antique sofa nestled into the bay window and disappears into a walk-in closet the size of Jody’s room.

When she returns, stumbling under the weight of a huge trunk, Dean hurries over to help. “What is this? You a pirate, Mrs. Winchester?”  
Her dour expression doesn’t change. “This is my son.”

She cracks the combination lock and lays it to the side. The first thing she hands Dean is a tattered, well-loved elephant with one eye missing and stuffing sticking out of its trunk. “That’s Edison.”  
Her eyes are already glassy as she sifts through straight A report cards and yellowing chess club certificates. She lines up medals, small trophies and stacks newspaper articles in a growing pile near where Dean sits cross-legged on the floor. Then she hands him a small, misshapen clay figure. After that, it’s a laminated chalk drawing. “He was in third grade when he made this. Can you believe it?”  
“Looks like you got quite the overachiever here.”  
“He was such a good boy. So sensitive.”  
“In what way?” Dean rests the lumpy, handmade clay thing - possibly an elephant, but hard to tell - on the floor and watches her face.  
“Oh, in every way." She picks up the figurine. "When he was very small, he would squint, like this, trying to keep his eyes closed all day. He’d be awake and active, just avoiding the light. And sound.That was a big one. Loud noises, he didn’t like. You couldn’t raise your voice around him. Then, it was certain foods. Not allergies, mind you, just ... sensitive. And thoughtful; empathetic. Like he was made out of something a little …” She rubs the air between her fingers, searching for the right word or texture to explain. “... lighter than the rest of us.”

Dean nods, not wanting to break the spell.

“Don’t get me wrong. He was tough, too. Tough as nails. He could take it and dish it on the field. And he had this laser sharp accuracy.“ Her head snaps up at Dean, back in the present moment. “John tells me you’re the same way. Strong and focused. My son was like that.”  
Dean turns over a mosaic self-portrait and traces his finger over the kid-scribble on the back. “Sam.”  
Mrs. Winchester's lip quivers. She is about to lose it. Dean is about to reduce his coach’s wife to tears, but in for a penny…  
“So, what? Is he dead?”   
The only other obvious conclusion is that the guy he’s been texting is a ghost. Which … come on.

She doesn’t reply. At the bottom of the chest, there are photo albums and yearbooks that she spreads out at his feet. It all begins with a hospital photo of a plump, bald baby in blue. Dean has never seen a picture of himself as a baby, but he likes kids. Kids are allright. And Sam was cute. That was to be expected.

He laughs to himself and listens to Mrs. Winchester's endless stories with a growing grin. Sometimes, he trails his finger over the face of the boy, growing up before his eyes in the scrapbooks and photographs.

Finally, they come to Sam’s senior yearbook. Dean pores over each caption and looks long at the striking, young man in his cap and gown. The photo he lingers over longest shows Sam with Coach Winchester, both of them wearing huge smiles as they share the weight of a massive trophy. State championship. Dean sighs and closes the book.  
“There’s a whole separate chest for his college years. We can do that another day if you like. Thank you for letting me show you all this. I don’t…” She wipes a tear from her eye before it even falls.  
Then she begins to pack everything away in a reverent, meticulous order.

“Yeah. No problem. Thank you.” Dean is reeling from a peculiar cocktail of thoughts and emotions.   
The ones he can pinpoint are shittiness for making her dig all that up; curiosity about why she has it buried in the first place. Mix in a massive dose of nostalgia for a guy he doesn’t even know. The result is one muddled teenager escaping into the hallway before he can feel any weirder.  
“Dean. Don’t mention this to my husband, please. Don't mention Sam.”  
"Can I ask why?”  
“It's just better that way.”  
  
***  
  
Sam hunches up his shoulders against the unseasonably cool, damp air. He should have worn a jacket. With a deep breath and a cautious glance over his shoulder, he tucks the dog lead under his arm. He thumbs a message into his phone and shivers.  
SW: I’m sorry if I gave you a wrong impression.  
Five minutes later, he receives:

DS: NP

It takes Sam a moment, but he figures out that must mean No Problem.

SW: Cool.

Kids still say cool, don’t they?

DS: R U frkd out?

SW: No

DS: Cool

SW: Flattered.

That’s a gross understatement.

DS: WAYD

Sam wracks his brain, but nothing occurs to him for the acronym. It’s a stupid waste of his limited time.

SW: Please write in English.

DS: What are you doing

SW: Punctuation is nice, too.

DS: Are you a fucking English teacher?

SW: I’m walking the dog

DS: Cool.

DS: What breed?

SW: Chi-Poo

DS: WTF

DS: What the fuck?

SW: Chihuahua Poodle Mix

DS: No shit. Herbal tea and a ChiPoo and ur not interested n me?

DS: JK

SW: Refer to my first impression.

DS: LOL.

DS: Laughing out loud.

That’s the one abbreviation Sam actually knows. He’s also doing it: laughing out loud. The electricty in his veins - it feels good and more than a little dangerous. After all, he is right across the street from his apartment. He covers his mouth with his hand and checks for spectators again. Not spectators. One person in particular who would be very upset to see him enjoying himself.

DS: What’s your mutt’s name?

SW: Chalupa

DS: Hilarious

SW: Wish I could take credit.

DS: Oh … GFs dog

SW: It’s complicated.

DS: What is this? Fucking FB?

SW: You have a dirty mouth.

DS: U have no idea

Sam shakes his head. “No.”

SW: Flirt free zone

DS: UR a cock tease

"Subject change."

SW: What are you doing?

DS: Jerking off to your yearbook picture.

DS: U look way better now, btw

DS: Technically, flirting is subtle. The way I see it, if I’m not subtle, it’s not flirting.

DS: Sam?

SW: Good night, Dean

Sam deletes the messages, every last one of them. It would be best not to imagine a gorgeous, green-eyed child masturbating with his picture. He stands perfectly still until his body is under control. Then he slips his phone into his pants pocket and adjusts himself.  
From his other pocket, he produces a small, blue plastic bag and stoops to clean up Castiel’s dog’s shit.  
  
***  
  
Dean leans against his locker, lets the bustle of students and teachers pass. He nods at a couple of girls who speak to him. Once they're gone, he takes out his phone.  
DS: Happy Friday

DS: U mad?

Garth (who Dean would have left in his locker if he had known) brings him this week’s third Coke and smile. Dean accepts both with a chuckle and waits for the beanpole to skedaddle before he checks to see what Sam wrote back.

SW: I would like to be your friend, but that’s only going to work if you can respect my boundaries

DS: My bad.

DS: I’m about to be so respectful it’s going to blow your fucking mind.

SW: :)

DS: I have a rule too.

SW: Shoot

DS: No emoticons

There's no reply for a few minutes. Then, Dean receives an actual picture of Sam, smiling.  
“Aw, fuck. That’s not fair. Fucking dimples?” He blows out a loud breath and wipes his hand down his face.


	9. Chapter 9

When Dean wakes up his traitorous dick and pubes and shorts are a sticky mess.

“Nice.”

It’s not as bad as pissing the bed, but now the upholstery is all cum-smelling. Even when he remembers exactly who he was dreaming about - and it’s someone he beats off to when he’s awake - wet dreams are for little kids. It’s a drag having so little control over his own body.

He shoves his shorts to the bottom of his laundry bag and jumps into the shower before Jody can see. The last time this happened, she didn’t let it go for months. For good measure, he busts off another one under the lukewarm water.

Saturday morning cartoons. Flashback theatre: Ren and Stimpy. That’ll do.  
On the first commercial, he runs to the kitchen and pours himself a bowl of Malt-O-Meal Marshmallow Mateys only to discover that the milk, which he was shocked to find in the first place, is closer to cottage cheese. It plops out of the bottle in foul smelling clumps, destroying his Mateys and his morning. “Sonofa...”

Dean dumps the gunk into the sink and carries the whole bag of cereal to the sofa to eat it dry, with his hands. On the next commercial, he texts Sam.

DS: What you doing today?

DS: We should hang out.

As totally normal friends, one of whom does not want to fuck the other one.

Sam would dig the perfect English.

But, boundaries.

Dean can respect boundaries. He doesn’t like 'em, but he can do it.

SW: Busy.

SW: Have a good weekend

DS: U2  
  
***  
  
Sam is typing when Cas shrieks, “Not there, you fucking idiot.”  
He sets his glasses on the desk.  
  
They ease the huge, glass coffee table to the right while engaging in rapid-fire foreign language conversation.  
“You know what? Fuck you, wetback. I know what ‘maricon’ means.” Castiel’s face is a menacing shade of red as he spits the words into the man’s face.  
  
Sam steps between them and rests his palm on Cas’ hot and heaving chest. “I got this. Why don’t you …”  
  
“Fuck you, too.” Cas storms onto the balcony.  
  
Sam offers the man an apologetic half-smile. “I’m sorry.”  
  
The mover shrugs like he puts up with that kind of crap every day and asks, “Where you want it?”  
  
Sam dredges up and dusts off the collegiate level Spanish that he hasn't used since he passed the course. “Um … aqui. Por favor.”  
  
A smile flits over the man’s face as he nods. Once it’s in place, Sam gives him “Gracias” and a $20 tip. He signs the delivery confirmation form and shakes both of their hands before they leave.  
  
***  
  
Dean slumps in his seat, elbow rests on the door handle, his forehead in his palm. Sitting in the back seat is giving him a freaking headache. The fucking Winchester’s singing is not helping. These people couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. That does not stop them from squawking at the top of their obnoxious, joyful lungs.

All their happiness is pureeing his brain in a blender. The music might not even be too bad if they would shut up. In spite of himself, Dean’s foot taps to the beat. The next time the chorus comes around, he mumbles along. Something about “a pirate, a puppet, a poet, a thief...” Too many words to get right the first time, but catchy.

Jo smiles over at him and he shuts it down.

“Daddy, turn it up. Dean likes it.”

Coach eyes him in the rearview mirror. Dean starts to protest as the old man cranks it up, but it’s that refrain again. This guy sounds like he’s singing through his balls.  
They wait until the song is over to pile out of the car. The second the car door opens, Dean groans with regret at accepting this invitation. It’s free to enter the Douglas County Fall Fair, but everything inside these gates is going to cost money that he doesn’t have.

His plan had been to make up some excuse why not to go on the rides: nobody could verify whether he’d recently had surgery or not. As much as he’s always wanted to try out bumper cars, he’ll get a chance some other time. Or not. It doesn’t matter. The problem is the smells. The smells alone are  torture. Dean is about to enter a sugar-laden, deep-fried corner of Heaven and his personal Hell will be not getting to eat a damn thing.

Something brushes against the back of his hands: Jo’s knuckles. He stuffs his own mitts into his pockets and doesn’t turn to see the look on her face.

Ahead of them, Mrs. Winchester curls her arm around the coach’s and kicks her legs out like she’s at Radio City Music Hall. She’s still singing that song.

“Hey, Yo.”

Dean’s blood curdles at the familiar voice even before he turns around and finds Ash’s fist hanging in the air. The only way to make the moment pass is to bump his fist against it.  
“What’s good, Smith? Coach. Mrs. Coach.” Ash slides a slimy gaze down Jo’s body. “You’re lookin’ mighty fine today, JoAnna.”

Jo tucks her arm into Dean’s so they look like a miniature version of her parents. He can't even blame her, though, and doesn’t make her stop. Coach Winchester allows the eye fucking Ash gives his daughter because he's busy watching a family approaching them.

“Mom and Dad, this is Dean.” Another familiar voice pipes up from his other side.  
What is this, a fucking reunion?

Dean raises one hand and a brow. Garth’s parents are normal looking. The little girl standing between them is standard issue, too. Garth’s the only one who belongs at Hogwarts. His mother damn near shakes Dean’s hand off. “It’s so nice to meet you, Dean. We were really excited to hear that Garry’s friends with football players! Weren’t we, honey?”  
Garth’s eyes plead with Dean not to contradict.

“Uh, yeah. Actually, I been meaning to ask the coach if we need a water boy or something.” He had thought about it, but hadn’t gotten around to it before now.

Coach is transfixed, as if he’s classifying Garth’s genus and species. Mary Winchester elbows her husband’s arm and he chokes out, “Uh, yeah. Sure. Every team needs a water boy.”

“That work for you?” When Dean looks at Garth, he’s got that elf with clothing look again. “All right, then, we’ll catch you at school.”

As Garth and his people disperse, Ash claps Dean on the back. “What’s it feel like having that fucking fairy ride your dick?”

Mrs. Winchester frowns at the crude language. Dean scoffs and rolls his eyes. Ash doesn’t seem to notice. He waves and runs off to catch up with some of the guys from the team. Dean retrieves his arm from Jo’s. That doesn’t stop her from peering up at him like he just slayed a dragon. She locks her elbow back around his again. This time, he doesn’t move. She’s soft and warm; it’s not the worst thing that ever happened to him.

A heavy hand falls on his shoulder and Dean leaps away from the girl. The coach gestures with two fingers. “I need you to come take a look at something with me.”  
“Look, I wasn’t…”

“Shut up.”

Dean follows the old man over to a duck shooting stand. Those aren't real guns, right? With both of their backs to the ladies, Coach pulls out his wallet. “You got any money?”

“I’m good.” Dean pins his gaze to a bobbing bird instead of the $50 bill.

The coach slaps it into his hand and growls, “Pay me back,” before pocketing his billfold and strolling back to his wife.  
  
***  
  
“Turn right.”  
  
He can't help it. Sam responds to barked commands. With his arms out wide, like a scarecrow crucifixion, he peeks down at the finger between his navel and the button of his pants.  
  
“You do know that you’re allowed to breathe.” The redhead at his feet smirks up at him.  
  
He flips his eyes to the ceiling. “Yeah, I know.”  
  
“You act like you’ve never done this before. Every time.” Her grin is more amused than critical.  
  
“Don’t judge me, okay?”  
  
“I will judge you. Because you’re a gigantic baby. Turn around.” She manhandles him into turning his back to her.  
  
“You’re so rough.”  
  
“You love it. Hands in the air.” Once Sam complies, she tugs at the bottom of his shirt and draws her hands down his sides. “Come on, baby.”  
  
Sam chuckles and twists from side to side while she hums the Chubby Checker song.  
  
“Like you mean it.”  
  
Sam bends and sways his body in every possible direction. “It feels great, Charlie.”  
  
“Of course it feels great. It also looks fantastic," she says. "Have you given any thought to my offer? Val pointed out, and I would have to agree, that you are far and away our sexiest customer.”  
  
He bows his head to allow himself a mortified snicker. “Oh, no. That’s not really me.”  
  
“Well, if you reconsider, the offer stands. Half off a three-piece suit for a few photos on the website? It’s an awesome deal, Sam. Kick off that modeling career. Fully clothed.”  
  
“No. It is. It’s a good deal. I just… don’t like a lot of…”  
  
“Attention. I got it. Too bad.” Charlie drops her pin cushion into her sewing kit. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Is there an occasion? Our boy got a juicy date?”  
  
“No.” He laughs to himself again, although, this time it’s with a bitterness that makes him sigh loudly enough for Charlie to raise her eyebrows.  
  
“Everything okay?”  
  
Sam nods. It isn’t lost on him that his tailor is the closest thing he’s had to a friend in years. She’s great. He likes her. She’s incredible at what she does, but it’s not like he can talk to her. He needs a different type of professional for that. “Just … needed to do something nice for myself.”  
  
“Good enough for me, kiddo.” She brushes the lint roller down his back a few times. “Now, go give Val all your money.”


	10. Chapter 10

Dean’s lab partner rolls her eyes when he pulls his buzzing cell phone from his white lab coat pocket.  
  
SW: Hey.  
He waves at the cute, plump girl and her unfortunate glasses. “Carry on, sweetheart. I’ll be right with you.”  
  
DS: You’re interrupting my education  
SW: What class?  
DS: AP Bio-chem  
SW: Smart jock. I like that  
DS: Fraid not. Regular, dumb jock. Biology was full when I got here.  
DS: I don't understand half of this shit.  
DS: You know anything about catalase kinetics?  
SW: Actually, I do. Thought about going into medicine for a while  
DS: Is that an offer to help me with my homework, doc?  
SW: Maybe sometime  
DS: How about tonight?  
DS: Not flirting, btw. Could genuinely use the help  
SW: You the new kid?  
DW: That was not a smooth subject change  
SW: Boss calling. GTG.  
DS: Talk ltr?  
SW: I’ll try  
  
***  
  
It's cool being the guinea pig. Leaning on the Winchester's kitchen island, Dean sacrifices himself for science by popping the pastry into his mouth. It tastes a lot like Lemonheads. He’d been caught stealing those from a 7-11 in Jacksonville, NC when he was 10. The result was his first stint in juvie: for theft and also for kicking the shit out of the guy who ran the store so he could get what was in the cash register.  
He wouldn't do either again.  
“It’s good.”  
Mrs. Winchester smiles.   
Jo rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right. Like Dean has the world’s most discerning palate. He’d eat cardboard.”  
  
“Not without salt.” Dean snags another little sour-sweet cake thing.  
  
“Don’t you have homework?” Mrs. Winchester scolds and Jo sulks away.  
  
While Dean helps her stack the snacks, he blurts, “I need to make a little money.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
Because he's a human being in the 21st century. Dean chokes back the sarcasm. His mother would never ask a ridiculous question like that, but   
this is not his mother. “It would just be good for me to have some.”  
  
“Well, if you need something, why don’t you just go grab my purse…”  
  
“No. I mean. Thank you.” He can’t accept cash from her to give back to her husband. “I know how to get what I need. What I'm asking is if you know any ways that you and Coach would approve of.”  
  
“I see.” She purses her lips in consternation or contemplation or both. “Actually, one of our elderly neighbors’ husband just died. She could probably use some help around the house. Why don’t we go have a look if she’s home?”  
  
Dealing with some crotchety old lady is not Dean’s first choice, but he follows Mary Winchester across the street. He did ask for it.  
  
***  
  
This woman is not old; she’s a fossil. The skin on her face is centuries-old leather. It folds and wrinkles like an albino prune. The spiky inch of hair on her scalp is dyed pumpkin orange, and the stretch pants and an oversized sweatshirt suit her spry little body.  
  
A faint scent of peppermint seems to eek out of her pores as she gives Dean a spicy once over and smirks. “Mary! Is this stallion for me?”  
  
Dean’s eyebrows shoot up and she winks baby blue eyes.  
  
“Mrs. Baker, this is Dean Miller. He’s one of John’s boys and he’s looking to be of service. I believe you will find him to be strong, respectful and trustworthy.” Mrs. Winchester meets Dean’s eyes on that last word. “So, if you would kindly put him to work.”  
  
Mrs. Baker opens her door to make just enough space for him to squeeze through, sideways. “Oh, gladly, dear. Dean, is it? Well, come on in here, Dean. I’m sure I have just the thing for you.”  
  
He glances back over his shoulder at Mrs Winchester, eyes wide with absolute terror.  
  
***  
  
Between the running shower and Cas singing “The Rose” at the top of his lungs, Sam will have every indication when the coast is no longer clear. Still, he retreats into the kitchen - the farthest room from the bathroom - and sits on the floor with his back to the cabinets before he writes:  
  
SW: Good day?  
DS: Pretty decent. You?  
SW: I’ve had better and worse.  
DS: What’d you do?  
SW: Work  
DS: That it?  
SW: That’s pretty much me in a nutshell. Riveting, right?  
DS: Do you like what you do?  
SW: It’s not bad. Pays well.  
DS: That’s something.  
SW: So, new kid. How long have you been in town?  
DS: Few weeks  
SW: Like it?  
DS: It’s just another place  
SW: Where did you move from?  
DS: New Orleans.  
DS: Before that we were in San Angelo, TX  
DS: Oceanside  
DS: Twentynine Palms  
DS: Barstow  
DS: San Diego  
SW: Went to school in CA  
DS: UCLA?  
SW: Stanford  
DS: Smart jock  
SW: Always liked school  
DS: Freak  
SW: How’s pre-season going?  
DS: Shoulder’s a little fucked up, otherwise fine  
SW: You start?  
DS: Fuck yeah I start  
SW: Messing with you. I could tell  
DS: Self absorbed thing?  
SW: I was kidding about that  
DS: You weren't  
SW: I kinda was  
  
Sam smiles down at his phone. This unspectacular conversation is the highlight of his day.  
  
***  
  
Half dressed and spread out on the couch, Dean searches through his phone and sends an icon of a bull taking a crap.  
  
SW: What ever happened to no emojis?  
DS: No emoticons  
DS: No punctuation faces  
DS: This here is modern hieroglyphics  
  
***  
  
Sam spares another glance toward the still noisy bathroom. For the first time, he is grateful for Castiel’s hour-long cleansing ritual.  
  
SW: Good to know. Any other parameters?  
DS: I’ll let you know if anything else occurs to me  
SW: Gonna have to go soon  
DS: Why?  
SW: Just do  
SW: You didn't say. Did you like the pic I sent?  
  
***  
  
Dean pumps his fist at the phone. “Did I like the fucking pic? You asshole. Stop fucking with me.”  
  
DS: What pic? Didn’t get it. Send another one."  
  
***  
  
Sam grins. “Yeah, right. You didn’t get it.”  
  
He sticks out his tongue, crosses his eyes and sends a picture of that.  
  
DS: Hot  
  
Sam calls the dog and sends another one with him kissing her snout.  
  
DS: Chalupa!!!  
DS: Where do you even live?  
SW: The city  
DS: How long does it take to get out there?  
SW: About an hour without traffic  
DS: How often are you here?  
SW: Not often  
  
Across the apartment, the water stops.  
  
SW: GTG  
  
***  
  
Dean sighs at his phone. “OK.”  
  
DW: Night  
  
After a few minutes of no response, he tucks it under his pillow.  
  
***  
  
It’s cozy as hell in Mildred's living room: all the wood and fall-colored upholstery, doilies, and simple knick knacks belong in a hobbit hole.  
  
He looks up the ladder more out of fascination than anything else. He’s not trying to go all Harold and Maude, but Mildred keeps it together for a 75-year-old. There are chicks half her age who aren’t as fit. “You sure you don’t want me to do that?”  
  
“You’re my assistant. Just hold the ladder. And stop checking out my ass.” She dusts the top of the window frames.  
  
Between that and the constant mint smell that comes off her, Dean can’t hold back the sneeze.  
  
“Bless you, darlin’.”  
  
Still gripping the ladder, he wipes his nose on the inside of his arm. “So, what happened after that?”  
  
“Well, what do you think happened? He went sixteenth.”  
  
“Come on.” He shakes his head, incredulous.  
  
“That’s right.”  
  
A dust bunny wafts down in front of Dean’s face. “Mil, don’t jerk my chain.”  
  
She chuckles. “You don’t believe me, look it up on your Google or something.”  
  
***  
  
Sam picks up his phone with a smile that fades when he reads it. He wipes a hand down his face and silences the device before returning to his work. Three hours pass before he gives it another glance. In that time, he has missed more than twenty messages, all to the same effect.  
  
DS: SAM???!!  
SW: Hey  
DS: Hey!!! Where are the fuck you??!!  
SW: Working from home.  
DS: Did you not get my messages???  
SW: Just saw them.  
SW: You googled me?  
  
There’s a pause of a few minutes.  
  
DS: After someone mentioned it  
SW: Who?  
DS: Does it matter?  
SW: Kinda does  
DS: How could you just fail to mention that???  
SW: Not really significant.  
DS: I’m going to have to disagree!!!  
DS: Shit, Winchester.  
DS: WTF??  
DS: What the fuck?!  
DS: Next thing you're going to tell me you fucked Katy Perry and just failed to mention it  
DS: And why are you accounting?!!  
DS: What the hell happened?  
DS: Did you get injured?  
DS: Dude???!!  
  
Sam rubs his forehead.  
  
SW: How was school?  
DS: 16th in the draft, Sam??!!  
SW: Don’t really want to talk about it  
DS: I’m seriously dying here.  
SW: Another time. Maybe.  
SW: You got practice now?  
  
***  
  
“Fucking Winchesters, man.” Dean looks out across the field.   
  
He’s the only one in the bleachers now, watching the custodian add an extra coat of white to the 40-yard line.  
  
DS: First game with the team tonight  
SW: Have fun  
DS: Is that official advice from the master?  
SW: Now I’m the master?  
DS: You’re a fucking NFL draft pick, Sam.  
SW: Was  
DS: You fucker.  
SW: That’s a compliment, isn’t it?  
SW: And I actually did meet her once. Very cute.  
DS: I’m going to fucking strangle you  
  
Dean hashes it all out in his mind again. It was clear that Sam was pretty good for him to take the team to the state championship. College ball was no big shocker, either. The idea that Sam had been good enough to play for the NFL was blowing Dean’s mind - only slightly more so than the fact that nobody wanted to talk about it.  
  
DS: Why don't you come watch me play? Give me some pointers after the game  
SW: Wish I could. Got a bunch of extra work to catch up on.  
SW: I’ll be surprised if I get to sleep by 2 tonight  
DS: I could come stay up with you?  
SW: Message me when you get home.  
DS: Yeah all right. Later  
SW: Kick a little ass for me  
DS: Will do.  
  
***  
  
It’s nearly midnight and Sam is still at his desk when the phone lights up. He takes off his glasses, rubs his eyes and smiles.  
  
DS: Your dad is an asshole  
SW: How bad?  
DS: 13 - 7. He made us run 6 miles. Then we had to talk out the game play by play.  
DS: Just getting home.  
SW: The man hates to lose  
DS: Oh yeah and I fucking love it  
SW: He’s a brilliant coach. You think you’ll lose the next one?  
DS: You think he's so great, why do you two hate each other’s guts?  
  
Sam winces at the screen.  
  
SW: I don't hate my dad  
DS: Then, what’s the deal?  
SW: Tell you when you're older  
DS: Funny  
DS: Asshole  
SW: Do you get along with your father?  
  
The front door opens. Sam’s stomach knots. Castiel’s footsteps are a death knell in the hallway as Dean writes back.  
  
DS: Good one  
  
SW: Gtg  
DS: Why?  
  
Sam deletes the messages, puts the phone face down and covers it with some papers. Castiel's head doesn’t even as he strides past on his way to the bedroom. It was too close and Sam's heart is thudding in his chest.  
  
***  
  
It’s another first for him. Mowing the grass is not all that bad. You push a machine in straight lines and occasionally empty the bag. It’s an okay way to make a buck.  
  
Jo stands up on the porch watching like he’s an afterschool special. Mildred, too, from her porch. Dean waves at his old pal. She grins and wiggles her fingers back at him.  
  
What a riot.  
  
It takes Jo a solid ten minutes to work up the nerve to cross the lawn. When she gets around to it, he drops the handle and the racket stops. He tugs the folded T-shirt from the waist of his sweatpants and wipes his sweaty forehead.  
  
She keeps about two feet distance between them, facing the house and holding out the glass of lemonade in an outstretched arm. The ice has long since melted. It’s pitiful and cute all at the same time.  
  
Dean smirks. “You ok?”  
  
She nods. His shirt is covered with clipped grass and dust, but he pulls it over his head. Jo finally turns to face him.   
  
The drink goes down in one gulp. JoAnna is so thirsty she watches with her mouth hanging open. He nods his appreciation and hands her back the glass. As she heads back to the house, Dean calls after her, “Hey, Jo.”  
  
She spins around and gazes at him with her doe eyes wide with expectation.  
  
“What’s up with your brother?”  
  
“What?” She didn’t see that one coming.  
  
“Your brother, Sam. Your mother told me about him. What’s the deal there?”  
  
Her mouth flaps a few times before she answers. “I don’t know. We don’t talk about him. I saw him for the first time in, like, five years at my dad’s birthday.”  
  
“What, does he have leprosy or something?”  
  
She shrugs. “Do you have siblings?”  
  
“I do not. But my mom’s name is Jo.”  
  
She laughs like he’s putting her on.  
  
“Really. It’s Jody. See? You and me, we must be fate.”  
  
It’s cruel. It's also kind of hilarious when a pretty blush blossoms on her cheeks and she trips over her feet on her way up the steps.  
  
***  
  
Jody comes out of her bedroom with her hair hanging over her shoulders. Her lips are so red, black leather dress so tight and short that Dean scratches his head and looks away for a second.  
  
“You like it?” She spins in the six-inch stilettos like she was born wearing them.  
  
“You’re looking every bit the slut tonight.”  
  
She curtsies. “Why, thank you, son. Spoken like an expert. Your coach stuck it up your ass yet?”  
  
“He’s not my coach.”  
  
She rolls her eyes. “But you are still playing football.”  
  
“I told you not to worry about it.”  
  
Jody tosses her hair off her shoulders with both hands. “I’m not worrying about it. I’m going to get laid.”  
  
“Is it that douche, Caleb?”  
  
She gives him the middle finger. “He’s not a douche.”  
  
“Let’s agree to disagree. You enjoy yourself, young lady. Use protection. I don’t need siblings.”  
  
“And I don’t need any more headaches. You lock up if you go out.” She prances across the floor, unnecessarily crossing between Dean and the   
television.  
  
He keeps his eyes glued to the screen.  
  
“Both locks,” she says, as if they have anything valuable to protect.  
  
“Got it.” He watches the TV until the door closes behind her.  
  
Then he picks up his phone and writes:  
  
DS: You tell me your daddy drama, I'll tell you mine.  
  
It is not an offer Dean makes lightly. It is not something he discusses with anybody. Ever. Why Sam is special, he isn’t sure. Maybe it’s because he’s not there in the room, with that pitying gaze that people get for a sob story. Dean doesn’t give them the chance to give him that look or to  psychoanalyze him. He keeps his goddamn sob story to himself. Usually.  
  
SW: How was your day?  
  
Sam Winchester. King of the subject change.  
  
DS: Sprained my stupid fucking ankle in practice.  
DS: Otherwise, crap. How about you?  
SW: OK  
DS: I guarantee my dad is a worse nightmare than yours  
  
Radio silence. Not another peep from Sam.  
  
Dean forces himself to only check his phone at commercial breaks. Eventually, he stuffs the thing under his pillow and lets himself be lulled to sleep by Space Ghost. The hornets in his dream turn out to be the pillow buzzing.  
  
SW: Hey  
DW: Hey  
SW: You up?  
DS: No  
SW: Tell me about your dad  
  
Dean squints at the phone. “It’s fucking 4 in the morning, you psycho.”  
  
DS: Not much to tell.  
DS: He makes your dad look like Chalupa.  
DS: Knocked up my mother when she was 13.  
DS: Tried to kill us  
DS: All around winner  
SW: Geez  
DS: Yeah  
  
Dean gulps half the beer he’d left unfinished on the floor beside the couch. “That was fun.”  
  
DS: Going back to sleep  
  
***  
  
SW: The thing with my da  
  
Sam is in the middle of typing when Castiel reaches over his shoulder and snatches the phone away. “Who are you texting at this hour, you sneaky fuck?”  
  
He smacks Sam’s ear with it and then bounces away from his reach. “Uh-uh. I want to know who this bitch is.”  
  
Castiel holds the phone over his head, which puts it just above Sam’s eye level. Sam grabs his wrist, but Cas drops it into his free hand. Then, he jabs it into Sam’s throat and waltzes away.  
  
For a few minutes, Sam gasps like a fresh-caught fish, doubles over in pain, clutching his throbbing voice box. He laments that he won’t get to explain to Dean, wonders who’ll get his work load or tell his parents.  
  
After a moment, a wheeze of air passes through his aching larynx. While Sam struggles to pull himself together, Castiel amuses himself with the messages.  
  
“God, this kid is fucked up. Poor little sphinx." Castiel giggles. "How do you think his daddy did it? Let’s see. How would I kill my kid? I think I would either drown it in the tub or back over it while it’s riding its big wheel?”  
  
“Come on, Cas,” Sam croaks and reaches out for the phone. “He’s having some trouble.”  
  
Castiel narrows his eyes. “Too bad for him. Come to bed.”  
  
“In a minute.”  
  
“Now.” Castiel flings the phone and it shatters against the balcony door. “Now, Sam.”


	11. Chapter 11

Dean flings a sporkful of mashed potatoes across the table at Ash, to the rowdy amusement of everyone, except for Jo. She shakes her head and calls them juveniles. Ash wipes the mess from his forehead and vows vengeance while aiming a spork-catapult. Turkey hash is better used as ammunition than food anyway.  
  
Dean’s phone buzzes and he pauses the battle with one finger.  
  
SW: Hey sorry about that. Broke my phone  
  
“Yeah, right,” Dean grumbles out loud.  
  
“Who is that, Smith? Your girlfriend?”  
  
Jo squirms in her seat as Dean treats Ash to a spinning display of his middle finger. “It’s your mother. She wanted to remind me to bring a fresh pack of rubbers tonight.”  
  
Dean gets his laugh and types a response. There's no point calling Sam out on his bullshit.  
  
DS: What’d you do? Drop it in the can?  
SW: Something like that.  
SW: Look. I can’t really talk right now. Work.  
SW: Just wanted to let you know I got a new one  
SW: Maybe we can talk tonight.  
DS: Got a game, so…  
SW: After?  
DS: Maybe  
SW: Play well  
  
Dean takes a deep breath and rolls his eyes. Fuck. This. Guy.  
  
Ash laughs. “You gonna cry? What’d she do, dump you?”  
  
“Fuck you, Ash. Your mom is never going to dump me. I’m the best bang she's had in her life.” Dean loads up to strike.  
  
***

For a welcome change, there is peace in the place. Castiel drank himself to sleep and is slobbering on the pillow. Sam stands over him for a moment, swipes an errant lock of hair from his ashen forehead. The tip of his finger traces over the blue wing tip on Cas’ shoulder. It’s the most ironic tattoo he's ever seen. He closes the door behind himself and steps into the hall.  
  
With a glass of red wine and Chopin, he eases onto the sofa. Chalupa prances over and curls up, warming one of Sam's feet.  One more glance over his shoulder before he consults his phone.  
  
-No new messages.  
  
It's strange initiating conversations with Dean, like he’s being lame or bothersome, or creepy, but Dean always writes back, so here goes.  
  
SW: How’d it go? SW: Bet you won this one, didn't you?  
  
Sam closes his eyes to let the music and the wine sink into his skin. A little over an hour later, he checks the phone.  
  
\- No new messages.  
  
If Dean is still annoyed with him about the phone thing, what else he can do? Sam had spent his lunchbreak  replacing it and had texted him the second the thing was functional.  
  
SW: Hey.  
SW: After game party?  
  
At 1:13 AM, he yawns awake and Dean still hasn’t written back. Sam massages the back of his neck. Fresh air would be good.  
  
In the crisp fall air out on the balcony, Sam receives an epiphany: it is insane to expect anything of this kid. They've been exchanging a handful of texts every day for nearly two weeks. Just because it’s become so important to Sam doesn’t mean that is mutual. What it means is that Sam needs to pull his life together. That’s not a newsflash.  
  
He should have known that the boy would lose interest. Dean was clear about what he wanted and Sam isn’t turning out to be much of a Fuckbuddy. How can he be surprised or disappointed if Dean is bored with him? Sam massages the ache in the center of his chest.  
  
This is a neon sign. This is Dean telling Sam to stop bothering him. Sam should be adult enough to take a hint and leave the kid alone. Instead, he writes.  
  
SW: Cool if I call?

On the third ring, a woman answers, “Dean Miller’s personal answering service. What can I do for you, Sam?”  
  
Wonderful. Sam has woken up Dean's mother in the middle of the night. He drops his forehead in his hand, longing to ditch the call, like a spooked teenager. She already knows who it is and that would just be worse. “Mrs. Miller?”  
  
The woman snickers. “Oh, no, honey." Her syrupy, southern accent drips through the phone. "This is Ellen Harvelle. I’m a nurse over at General. I'm talking to Sam, right? Dean’s friend?"  
  
Sam grips the steel railing. “Is he okay?”  
  
"Oh, he'll be fine."  
  
"He took a hit."   
  
"Pretty good one, too. I tell you, that boy was dizzy as a bat. He hasn’t stopped talking about you since they brought him in here.”  
  
Dean was talking about him? It’s not the time to dwell on that, but it sends a warm rush through Sam. “What did he say?”  
  
“He wanted me to send you a message, but I don’t mess around with that texting nonsense. My grandkids do it constantly, but my eyes are too bad. I told Dean it could either wait or that if it was important, you would call. He said you would never call and here you are - calling.”  
  
Sam huffs. “Is he nearby?”  
  
“Well, right now, he’s down having his cat scanned. Technically, I’m not supposed to answer patients’ phones, but I knew he’d want you to know. Why don't you call back and leave a message?”  
  
"Can you give me any idea what his doctor said?"  
  
“Not really allowed to do that, but I tell you what, Sam: that kid is Ford tough. Came in here joking around. Saying he felt like a piñata." She laughs. "Usually when they're talking as much as he was, I assume they’ll live. Just call him back, honey. Give it about an hour or two. But don’t let him talk too long.”  
  
Sam paces the balcony. The wind batters his skin. He can’t go there. Sam can't get into the car and drive to General. He can’t go visit some kid who probably doesn’t even want him there anyway. Even if Dean did, only immediate family is permitted at this hour. “Thank you.”  
  
“Sure thing, honey. He’ll be fine, Sam.”  
  
He thanks her again and huffs a small laugh.  
  
SW: Text me as soon as you get this.  
  
Sam sits up on the sofa staring at the phone as if that will make Dean’s CT end faster. Eventually, he leans back, but can’t bring himself to sleep. He scans the titles on his shelf, tries to read, but can't focus on the words. Over an hour later, his phone buzzes against his chest.   
The message is blank.   
Sam's lips tremble. Then, he smiles.   
SW: Still alive huh?  
DS: Y  
SW: Dangerous game, football  
DS: 1  
SW: They must have assessed you as a threat. That’s when they hit harder. Start playing reckless. You must have been kicking ass  
SW: How you feeling?  
DS: ShT  
  
Sam laughs out loud at that, then covers his mouth.  
  
SW: Staring at the screen probably doesn't help  
DS: U  
SW: Me? What?  
DS: U gwko  
SW: Yeah. You should rest  
  
Sam snaps a photo of himself smiling. Then, he takes one of himself blowing a kiss. After spending way too long puzzling over them, he sends the second one.  
  
SW: For your forehead.  
  
He deletes it all from his phone, powers down and goes to bed.  
  
Sam doesn’t sleep, though. Can’t. He twitches with a yearning to be beside Dean, holding his hand, making sure the doctors are doing everything they can, kissing him for real.  
  
If Castiel catches him crying, first, he’ll laugh, then, he’ll demand to know why. Sam cries more than he would care to admit, but he saves it for his rare, private moments, like in the bathroom stalls at work. He squeezes his stinging eyes shut and folds his lips into his mouth.  
  
***

Dean rolls over, opens and shuts his eyes again. The sunlight is brutal; his skull is full of soup. He gropes for the remote. One button makes the bed lurch, groan and lay back flat. A different one sits him upright. He finds the button for the TV and listens to the Family Feud.  
  
When the show is over, he tries to peer through his lashes. Still too bright. His head screams at him for trying. His eyes buzz, but he forces them open long enough to find his phone. Much longer, he’s going to hurl.  
  
The picture of Sam is torment, in every sense of the word.  
  
Dean closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and tries to open them wider. It hurts like fuck. Hurts his face, hurts his foggy brain. The sharp twinge in his chest is worse than the other pain. The headache and the nausea belong to a wounded warrior. That other pain makes him weak.  
  
He stares at the photo until his lips quake and a tear threatens to break from the corner of his vibrating eye. “You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?”  
  
***  
  
She’s pretty. Of course, she is. Sam blinks at the dark haired girl with huge bosoms popping out of a tight, low cut top. In the photo Dean sent, she leans against a locker and waves at the camera. Sam looks at her for a long time. She is really pretty.  
  
In the next cubicle, his coworker continues working with her head down. All around the office, Sam knows most of their names and nothing about them. He goes to work. He comes home. He doesn’t talk to anyone. He doesn’t go out, in order to keep Castiel happy, which doesn’t work. All it does is add to Sam's isolation.  
  
If he were on a raft in the middle of the ocean, Castiel would be the water and the sharks and burning sun and that's fine. The problem is, Sam has let Dean become his raft, which is only slightly better than drowning. That was a mistake. He can see that now. Sitting at his desk, looking at this picture of this pretty girl, Sam is beginning to see how stupid he’s been.  
  
SW: I think maybe you sent this to the wrong person  
DS: No way, man. Wanted you to see what I’m doing tonight  
SW: Why are you telling me this?  
DS: Just shooting the shit, bro.  
SW: OK  
DS: We’re friends, right?  
SW: Of course  
DS: I'm guessing you’re more into blondes, with your mom and Jo  
SW: I got to go.  
SW: Have fun  
DS: Yeah. I will


	12. Chapter 12

Castiel pirouettes around the living room with his back arched, arms rising over his head as the oboes swell. Sam tromps across the room, but not fast enough to escape Cas' grasp for support before he dips his head almost to the floor. He raises a leg and flexes his toes straight at the ceiling. “Did I ever tell you about how I landed Show Boat? It was right after my agent changed my stage name to Angel Caido.”

Of course, Castiel had told him this story, on multiple occasions. The name is every bit as ironic as his tattoo.

“It was genius. She passed me off as a Miami-born Cuban for five years. I'd never had so much work. And there, my boy, is the soft underbelly of white privilege. All before your time, Sammy. All before I found my own angel.”

Castiel rights himself and drapes his arms around Sam’s neck, nips at Sam’s unshaven chin.

Sam stares ahead and allows Castiel to drag his arms around his waist. Then he drops them at his sides gain. “I’m just trying to get breakfast.”

“Dance with me, Sammy.”

Sam rolls his eyes and diverts them out of the glass door to the balcony.

Castiel shoves him away. “What’s with you these days? You were always dull. Now, you’re just pathetic.”

Chalupa yelps at the kick to her ribs.

Sam steps between Castiel and the dog. “Stop it.”

“Make me.”

Sam scoops Chalupa under his arm and trudges to the kitchen. It’s been a few days since he’s eaten much of anything. That doesn't agree with his size or his metabolism. He has to force something down or he'll pass out.

 

***

 

Jo approaches Dean’s locker like she's training a young lion. “Hey. You feeling any better?”

He glares and waits for her to go away without him having to tell her to.

“A few of us are going fishing this weekend.”

“Good for you.”

She jumps out of the way when he slams the door shut. “All you had to do was say you didn't want to come. You know, you have turned into a complete dick.”

“How would you know, Princess?”

It’s been an entire week since he last heard from Sam and it shouldn’t be a problem. Dean’s gotten laid. They had won their last two games. Both had been close calls, but once Dean had his head in it, they had come around.

He should be good. Should be over the godamn moon, but he feels like dried up horse shit. Yesterday, he ripped Garth a new one for bringing him a Coke.

“What is going on with you?” Jo jogs to keep up as Dean forces his way through the crowded hall. She excuses herself left and right but somehow manages to keep up. “If you don't want to talk to me, talk to my dad. He can help you, whatever it is.”

“You really believe that, don’t you?”

She touches his arm, trying to get him to slow down. “My mom said to tell you to come by for--”

“Not interested.”

“If this is how you act when you win, I hope you lose every game for the rest of the season.”

“Yeah. I’m sure your daddy feels the same way.”

“Dean, would you please--”

“You’re not my girlfriend, Jo. What is your deal?” Dean’s jaw is clenched tight enough to crack a tooth.

She gasps like he punched her in the stomach. Then she murmurs. “I’m just trying to be your friend.”

Dean bangs his fist against a locker. A crowd of people stop what they’re doing to stare at them. “I don't need any more fucking friends.”

 

***

 

Sam stares at the cursor blinking on his screen. He's been watching it for the last twenty minutes and lacks the mental or physical energy for anything else.

 

***

 

Dean is high on beating the shit out of an inanimate object. Caleb’s red pickup truck was a rusted out piece of crap before Dean ever took the Winchester’s bat to it. Baseball is a no-contact punk sport, but the crunch of wood striking metal sends a tremor exploding down his whole body that is almost better than fucking.

He bashes all the windows first. Then the headlights and the taillights. He beats the crap out of that stupid fucking license plate: SMPR F.

“Semper fuck you.”

By the time Caleb comes running out of McGinty’s, the fender is dangling. A small crowd of drunken shitheads hollers like Babe Ruth is in the World Series. Fuck them.

Dean hears the rebel yell before he sees Caleb charging for him. His brain takes no time to register the attack. Instinct kicks in and Dean hits a fucking home run with the guy’s chin.

The dull thud of wood on bone is a different sensation from hitting aluminum or glass and Dean is sick to his stomach as Caleb spins on his heels like a cartoon character. He doesn’t wait to watch Caleb go down; he’s too busy running like hell.

Dean slows down when he slams the door and bolts every lock, leaning against it, panting like he’s just run 4 miles. He tosses the bloody bat on the floor, shrugs out of his hoodie and stoops to wrap it around the tip. Then, he shoves the whole mess under the sink just as Jody stumbles into the kitchen. Dean closes the cabinet door and stands to face her.

“Where have you been, you little shit?” Her left eye is puffed all the way shut.

The bruise on her cheek is a dark purple now. Without touching the discolored skin, he cups her face in his hand. “It’s worse.”

She leans away. “Where did you go?”

“Had to take care of something.” His breath is finally returning to normal, even as his mind races like crazy.

He grabs a beer from the fridge.

“Is that the last one?”

Dean pops the can. “Yes, it is, and I’m fucking well going to drink it.”

Jody marches over and tries to pry it away from him. He holds her back with one hand and drinks from the other while she gripes and swats until she knocks the beer from his hand.

Dean gapes at the liquid spilling onto his shoes and all over the floor. “You know why only assholes want you? Because you’re a fucking bitch.”

Her hand connects so hard across his face that it stuns them both.

When Dean was a little kid, Jody would lift him by his collar and give a good shake if he begged too loud in a Dollar General. She would hold her face an inch away from his and hiss threats between her bared teeth when he wasn’t walking fast enough. This is the first time she’s ever hit him. Neither of them seems to know what to do about it.

After a moment, she strokes the reddening skin on his cheek. The touch burns, too, but Dean leans into it. The expression on her face is pitiful and sweet, kind of looks like a mom. “What did you do?”

“I should have fucking killed him.” Dean drops his face onto her neck.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”

 

***

 

Sam rubs his eyes, tries to focus on the screen, feeds in more numbers but stops when he gets that eerie sense that someone is watching.

Castiel stands in the door frame with the handle of a rolling suitcase in one hand. A tapestry bag full of Chi-poo hangs off the other arm. “You don’t even look at me anymore.”

Sam gawks up at him, speechless.

“It’s clear that you don’t want me. It’s been like this for months, Sam. Maybe longer. I don’t know. How long has it been since I was enough for you? You don’t have anything to say, do you?”

Sam doesn't dare break the spell by saying something that might make Cas stay.

“You know what? Fuck you, Sam.”

He doesn’t even slam the front door when he leaves.

Sam blinks a few times and picks up his cell phone. He hasn’t heard from Dean in two weeks and he has work to do.

 

***

 

A patrol car is parked in front of the school. Dean glances around the lot and starts walking backward in the direction he had come. Once he’s in the woods, he turns and bolts.

The bell over the door of the salon dings when he slinks in. Every head in the shop turns to watch him enter.

“Hi, um. Is my mom here?”

“Jody!” The lady working at the first chair shouts without taking her eyes from his face.

“Dean? That you, darlin’?” Mildred’s voice rasps familiar and almost puts him at ease.

She's all the way across the room with her head back over a sink, like a guillotine. 

“Hey.” Dean says and waves.

“What are you doing out of school?”

Before he can answer, another woman waddles over and pinches his chin between thick fingers. Mag, the shop owner, is a short, stout slug of a Puerto Rican lady with a mustache and a salt-and-pepper beehive. Her dry, calloused fingertips scrape over his cheekbones. “Would you look at this child? Jody, no way this came outta you.”

“Up yours, Maggie.” Jody carries a plastic bin full of nail polish from the back room. She has makeup caked all over her face so from a distance nobody can see how busted up she is.

Mildred chimes in, “Doesn’t he look like he was hand chiseled by angels?”

Dean has heard it all before, but he’s never gotten used to old ladies creaming their Depends over him. He suffers the compliments with what could be a smile but isn’t.

Jody opens her palms as if presenting him to the world. “There you go. That should be your Indian name. Don’t you have school, ‘Chiseled By Fucking Angels’?”

“Didn’t feel like it today.” He shoots her a loaded glance.

No further explanation is required. They’ve run from enough trouble to know the look.  
She nods and hands him a broom. “Well, then, you better make yourself useful, Gorgeous.”

 

***

 

On his break, Sam steps outside where few of his coworkers are smoking. They look him over, but no one says a word.

After working at this firm for two years, he has never said more than the obligatory ‘hi’ or ‘bye’ to any of them.

So, Sam hunches up his shoulders against the drizzle and stays under the awning to keep his phone from getting wet.

 

***

 

Dean has pumped up his mother’s chair as high as it will go, so that his feet dangle over the edge. He lounges, enjoying a roast beef sandwich with mustard, while Mag brushes his hair back from his forehead. It feels so good he can’t even be ashamed of himself-- not even when Jody shakes her head at him. “Maggie, do you have any idea what kind of monster you’re creating?”

“You really ought to pamper him more, Jody.” Mag smooths her hand over Dean’s hair.

“Why on earth would I do that? He’s practically an adult. He ought to get a job and start pampering me.”

Dean eyeballs his jacket, which hangs on the coat rack by the door, when the pocket buzzes. It might as well be a hive of pissed off bees.

“That your phone? You can go ahead and get it, sweetheart.” Mag sets the brush aside.

Dean sighs and gets the thing. He groans and makes a face at the screen.

SW: How have you been?

He puts the phone facedown on the countertop, hadn't expected to hear from this asshole again. All the old women have gone back to work. His mother is the youngest by thirty years or so, but she fits right in. She washes a lady’s hair, listens to her babble about their grandkids. When he was a little kid, he used to curl up under Jody’s work station with a comic book and Gram, that filthy stuffed dog he used to love so much. What ever happened to that thing? 

“Where are you?” Mildred rests her freshly manicured hand on his shoulder.

Her hair looks exactly the same as before: spiky and carrot colored. It’d be a shame if she ever changed it.

“I don’t know. Just…” Dean stammers and shrugs.

Midlred’s head inclines toward the phone. “You going to answer?”

Dean picks up the phone again and thumbs in a response.

DS: OK.

Then, he puts it back down. It buzzes again in less than minute.

SW: Been a while

Dean flings the phone and his sandwich onto the foil on the counter in front of him. It takes a lot to ruin his appetite, but this thing with Sam has done it. 

“That bad?” Mildred’s skin creases even more to make the concerned expression on her face.

“It’s fucking torture, Mil.”

“You know what you need to do?" she says. "Give it a hundred percent and don’t worry about anything else. If she likes you back, it’ll be good. If she doesn’t, at least you’ll know.”

Dean picks his stupid phone back up and sighs.

SW: How’s it going with your girl?  
DS: Done  
SW: That’s too bad.

SW: How come we stopped talking?  
DS: IDK 

“Because you were fucking around with my head,” Dean speaks out loud, as if he were holding Sam in his hand. 

SW: I miss it  
SW: Miss you

“No, thank you. Not again, you fucker.” He starts to thumb in a message, but Sam is quicker.

SW: Would you send me a pic?  
SW: Of you

Dean winces at the phone.

SW: Waist up  
SW: Shoulders up  
SW: Fully clothed  
DS: What for?  
SW: I can't remember exactly how you look  
SW: I’d like to see you

Dean turns up his nose at his bunched up his guts - that want for Sam to want him. For that reason alone, he puts the phone down on the counter again and walks away from it.

“Dean,” Mildred calls, but he can’t deal with her now.

Can’t deal with any of this.

He plods over to the front window, watches cars pass, gets a quarter from Mag and buys himself a stale gum ball from the machine by the door.

From all the way across the shop, he looks back at his phone, but it’s not the problem. Sam isn't the problem. Dean, himself, acting like a lovesick little bitch is the problem.

Fuck it. It’s a pic. Not doing it is stupider than doing it.

He snaps a shitty selfie, erases it and tries another one with a smile that turns out worse.

“What do you think of this one?” he asks, cozying up to Mag behind the counter.

“You look constipated. Jody, come help this boy take a decent picture.”

Jody gives him the finger and goes on clipping pins into her customer’s hair.

Mildred is having her feet done now. She motions to him with her fingers, takes his phone, but is still beckoning until he leans down and lets her tousle his hair. “Girls want you to look a little wild and dirty nowadays. God knows why. It’s what they like.”

“That is true," Mag bellows. "That Twilight boy. Messy messy messy.”

Dean groans at being compared to that jerkwad.

“The girls don’t like nice anymore. They want dirty.”

Dean smiles through the nausea. “Should I go roll in the mud?”

“Don’t be a smart-ass.” Mildred snaps a few shots.

She scrolls through and suggests one where Dean doesn't look like a self-absorbed spazz or a constipated, nervous moron. He sends it to Sam.

“You look nice. Be sweet to her, hear?"

“Yes, ma’am.”

It’s Mildred’s turn to grimace. “Don’t you ever call me that.”

“Ma’am?” Jody crows, mocking him as she comes back in from the back room. “Who are you and what have you done with my heathen?”

Dean smirks as the phone vibrates in his hand.

“She like it?” Mag’s penciled in eyebrows raise.

Every woman in the shop stops: all the customers, every stylist, even his mother, pause to hear his answer. Dean takes a deep breath and looks down at his phone.

SW: Jesus.  
SW: And you call me beautiful?

He subdues his smile and nods to his anxious audience. The old ladies whoop like Dean just ran in for a touchdown. Mildred and Mag give each other a high five. He laughs and takes his phone outside for some privacy.

SW: I could be wrong, but I recall you look even better in person

“Don’t tease me, Sam,” he murmurs out loud.

SW: Would it be okay if I came by and confirmed that sometime?

 


	13. Chapter 13

Even from the hallway, the honking and squeaking is like they’re slaughtering every animal in the zoo at the same time. Dean enters and a few eyes perk up. A respectful hush falls over the band room as if he's the fucking King of the school. Nerds can be so dramatic.  
  
Dean ignores them and saunters to Jo with his hands folded behind his back. She finishes assembling her flute and unlike the other band geeks, is unfazed by everyone in the room watching them.  
  
He clears his throat. "I was an asshole.”  
  
She arranges her music without looking up. “You have been an asshole for some time now.”  
  
Dean nods and presents the peace offering: this orange flower is the only thing still blooming in Mildred’s yard. It doesn’t smell like much other than sweet dirt, and it's wilted since this morning, but that makes it look like it’s bowing. He reaches over and tucks it behind Jo’s ear. If possible, the room becomes even quieter. He whispers, for Jo’s ears only, “I’m sorry.”  
  
She peers up at him; mouth parted in awe. This gesture was, maybe, a mistake. There have to be ways to apologize to Jo that don’t reduce her to a blathering stupor.  
  
The band leader’s tap on the podium snaps most of the students from their trance. Jo, however, is a lost cause, still gaping at Dean like he's made of gold. Not what he was going for.  
  
“Are you joining the band, Mr. Smith?”  
  
He stands upright, “No ma’am, I am not.”

Electric guitar or drums, he’d consider learning. Marching band? Hats with mohawks? Not a chance.  
  
“Then, we will see you at the game.”  
  
Dean nods to Jo and splits, possibly having made things worse.

  
***

 

Garth is huffing and puffing by the time catches up to Dean in the hallway. He leans on his knees to catch his breath. Dean can’t help but grin at the goofy, little fuck.

“Coach is looking for you.”

Dean taps on the door - shave and a haircut - before turning the knob. Coach Winchester is standing behind his desk. He motions for Dean to take a seat, folds his arms behind his back and launches the lecture. “In the recipe for success, there is one ingredient that is more important that talent, Dean. Do you know what that is?”

Dean keeps his eyes from rolling by focusing on the coach’s stern face. “No, sir.”

“Commitment.”

Dean won't tolerate a tongue lashing from many people, but he bites his own to keep from talking back. Over the next half hour, Coach Winchester unloads on him about natural ability and crappy upbringings. Yada yada. He gives Dean the blues for being an insufferable asshole the last few weeks. Dean’s passing out apologies like candy, anyway. What’s one more for the coach?

“Accepted. Now, last night you left your team in a lurch. So far as I can tell, you weren't ill or anything. Just chose not to show up. Correct me if I’m wrong."

Dean rolls his lips together but doesn't speak. What is he going to say? _  
_

_Sorry, Coach. I couldn’t come to the game because I couldn’t come to school, because I was avoiding the five-o, because I had just beaten the crap out of my mother’s latest piece of shit boyfriend, because that’s the fucking story of my life._

Then, Coach Winchester hits him with last night’s score: 27 to 3. According to the old man, they lost because of shit morale due to Dean’s absence. It’s a load of bull, but Dean’s in no position to argue when he’s wearing a pair of sneakers the coach bought and paid for since his other ones are busted to hell. So, when the coach informs him he’s going to be running for the entire practice, Dean responds with a crisp, “Yes, sir.”

“You got a problem with that?” Coach practically spits the words in his face.

“No, sir.”

It’s a classic case of a good deed being thoroughly punished. Dean had done the right thing and is having his ass handed to him. He couldn't let some bastard get away with hurting Jody. How would the coach handle that kind of thing?

“And you're going to run until I get sick of watching it. Now, get the fuck out of my face.”

“Yes, sir.”

  
***  
  
Sunday at noon, the bell rings at the Methodist church as Dean drags himself off the track like a prize asshole, calling himself every insult he can think of. He should have known that Sam wasn’t going to show. This whole thing is just another mindfuck.  
  
He pulls one heel to his glute to stretch out his tense right quad. Right here and now, it's time to block Sam’s number from his phone. It’s a bitch move, but this shit has to end. The guy doesn’t even have the decency to show up or cancel when they make plans.  
  
Oh.

There Sam is, strolling towards him. Every bit as time-stopping sexy as the first time Dean saw him, with his hands jammed in the pockets of a tan jacket. Those long-ass legs, thin hips, shoulders for days. God. Damn.  
  
Dean’s stupid stomach flutters and he clamps down on that shit on the spot. No way he’s going to let some guy reduce him to a nervous, stuttering female thing - not even one this hot. He drops his foot from the stretch and refuses even to let himself smile. “When’d you get here?”  
  
“A few minutes before you.” Sam’s voice is so quiet, Dean has to lean forward to hear him clearly.  
  
The guy isn't making any effort to hide his amusement with the situation. Those fucking dimples are going to put Dean in his grave. “I thought we were both running.”

“We said to meet at the track. I don't run unless I'm being chased.”  
  
“I’ll have to remember that.” Asshole.  
  
“You looked good, though. Good form.” Sam’s tongue darts out to wet his lips.  
  
Dean mirrors the action, without thinking about it.  
  
“You could probably use a shower. Maybe a homemade smoothie?”  
  
A smoothie. Seriously? And does Sam always talk like this? Not quite Mr. Rogers, but so soft and careful it makes him a little nervous.  
  
Out loud, he says, “How could a guy possibly say no to a smoothie?”  
  
Hard to believe it, but Dean is riding beside a former NFL draft pick in a fucking five-year-old, dust gray Prius. Why kill the moment and tell Sam what he has to already know? This car isn’t a complete piece of shit; it’s just boring as hell. Spotless, though, with one of those pine trees dangling from the rear view mirror. Artificial pine scent clashes with Sam's cologne and Dean's sweat.  
  
Dean reaches out to turn on the car stereo. “You mind?”  
  
“Go for it.”

Classical music blasts through the stereo. “This your thing?”  
  
“You can change it.”  
  
“No, it’s cool.” Dean never heard anything like this outside of an elevator.  
  
Why would someone would listen to this on purpose?

Sam's hands are fucking huge. Long fingers tap along to the music as if there’s a beat.

“What is this, like, Mozart or something?”  
  
Dean could put his tongue all over Sam's tight little grin.  
  
“Um, it’s Edward Elgar, actually. One of my favorite pieces. It psyches me up for … you know … whatever.” Sam’s voice is low and smooth and still uncomfortably gentle.  
  
Dean can get used to it. “This pumps you up?”  
  
There’s that smile again. “Yeah, it does. Psyches me up, calms me down. Multifunctional.”  
  
“I think it’s putting me to sleep.”  
  
“I’m seriously fine if you want to change it.” He peeks at Dean, but doesn’t really meet his eyes for more than a second, like he doesn't want to be caught looking. “What do you like?”  
  
“Rock, mostly. Rap’s okay. Anything with a beat. But this is cool. It’s … different.”  
  
They are quiet for a while, letting the cellos fill the space between them. Dean’s hands itch to touch.  
  
“I saw in the paper that you won your game last night.”  
  
Dean’s entire body goes stiff. “What do you mean?”  
  
“They always list the scores.”  
  
“Oh.” Dean locks and unlocks the door. He winds down the window. He blurts out the only thing he can think of. “Nice ride.”  
  
“Inconspicuous, responsible and reliable.”  
  
Dean can’t argue with that. He also can't think of anything else to say. He rubs his clammy palms over his sweatpants to keep them dry.  
  
Sam glances at Dean’s hands. “Are you sure you’re okay with this? You seem … ”  
  
“I’m good.” Dean always gets a little uneasy when he knows he’s going to get fucked. It doesn’t happen often anymore and it has been a while.  
  
Still, he’s game. As if to prove it to Sam and himself, Dean rests a hand on Sam’s firm thigh. Just like that, Dean is tenting his sweats.

“I could just take you home.”  
  
“Sam. I’m good.” Dean slides his grip up and palms Sam’s package, not hard or anything, but Sam gasps.

He tenses and slams on the brake so that Dean lurches forward and his cheek crashes against on the windshield. The driver behind them lays on the horn as their car screeches around Sam’s Prius.  
  
“Sorry.” Sam gets the car rolling at the speed limit again.  
  
Dean rights himself in his seat. “I should probably buckle up.”  
  
“I’m sorry. I thought … maybe we could … Some people get to know each other a little first.” Sam rubs the back of his neck, blushing.

Straight guys.

“Sure," Dean says. "Okay. How do you want to do that?”  
  
“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask me something? Nothing’s off limits.”  
  
“Okay … Um, who’s your favorite superhero?”  
  
Sam pulls a sour looking face. “Not really one of my areas of expertise. It was never really my thing.”  
  
“Well, we can talk about something else.”  
  
“No, I just … Don’t laugh at me if I don’t know something.” Sam peeks at Dean from the corner of his eye.  
  
“I wouldn’t do that. Just pick one.”  
  
“Superman?”  
  
Dean looks out of the passenger window to hide his grimace.  
  
“No? So, who’s your favorite?” Sam flicks on his turn signal.  
  
“Caped Crusader, hands down.”  
  
“Oh. I don’t think I’ve heard of him.”  
  
Dean’s eyes pop nearly out of his skull. “You haven’t heard of Batman? You’re kidding me, right?”  
  
“Oh, Batman. I thought …” Sam closes his eyes for a brief moment. “You said … Okay, so, Batman is better than Superman?”  
  
Dean shuts off the radio. “Absolutely. First of all, aliens are automatically disqualified. That removes Superman, Thor and a whole mess of other guys from the discussion.”  
  
“Why are we removing aliens?”  
  
It should be the most obvious thing on earth. “I mean, because, come on. For one thing, aliens don’t exist.”  
  
“Unlike superheroes.”  
  
“Do you want me to explain this or what?”  
  
“Sorry.” Sam folds his lips in.

Dean pokes him in his right dimple. “Well, for another thing, Bruce Wayne is super rich and super smart.”  
  
“How is that better than Iron Man?”  
  
Dean sucks his teeth, “Oh, so you know about Iron Man, but you don’t know who the Caped Crusader is?”  
  
“All I know about Ironman is that he’s some super rich smart guy.” Sam cranes his neck, waiting for the traffic to clear before he merges.  
  
“Tony Stark is a douche. I’ll give him credit, because, similar to Bruce Wayne, his greatest superpower is his intelligence, which is indisputably badass. But little kids can’t look up to Tony Stark. You put Tony Stark in a room with a bunch of little kids, he’ll start passing out shots. Besides which, he’s hiding behind a suit. Dark Knight faces danger head on.”  
  
“In a mask?”  
  
“Well, he’s got to protect his identity.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“Also, integrity.”  
  
Sam looks at Dean with what appears to be sincere interest.  
  
Dean counts off attributes on his fingers now. “He’s fucking honest. He stands up for what he believes in and he doesn’t kill, even though he could. Easily. But, the most important thing you need to remember about Batman is that he’s just a guy. He's not perfect. He’s not invincible. He had some messed up shit happen to him. He tries to make sense of it. At the end of his story, he dies, just like the rest of us. Now you know. It’s Batman. Every time.”  
  
“You’ve given this some thought.”  
  
“I like Batman.” Dean smiles and then, laughs.  
  
“I can see that.”

Sam watches the road for a while. Every so often, his eyes flicker back to Dean.

“What?”  
  
Sam’s fingertips brush over the cheek that hit the windshield. “Your face. It’s all red. Are you okay?”  
  
“I’ve had worse.” Dean’s skin tingles from the touch, long after Sam’s hand is back on the wheel.  
  
“Dean.” Sam's brow furrows as if he's mentally scrolling for the right words.” Are you looking for some kind of … Daddy?”  
  
Dean subdues his cringe. “Is that what you’re into?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Thank God. No. I just want to hang out.”  
  
Sam nods. “Good.”  
  
“Cool.”

  
  
***

 

Sam lets Dean enter the apartment first and chuckles as the kid touches everything he sees. Dean knocks a frame from the bookshelf and fumbles to keep it from crashing to the ground. After a few minutes, he smiles over his shoulder. “Nice place.”  
  
“Thanks. Um. Smoothies, right?”

“Sure.” 

What Sam has gotten himself into, he is not sure, but he has to stop looking at this kid. He isn’t going to have any resolve left if he keeps it up.  
  
Dean drops his backpack on the sofa like it belongs there. “You read all these?” His shouted question floats into the kitchen.  
  
“Most of them,” Sam answers from the kitchen without raising his voice.  
  
“You don’t have a TV?”  
  
“Um, no.”  
  
“How do you live? And where’s Chalupa at?”  
  
Sam doesn't answer; talk about the dog means talk about Castiel. While Sam collects ingredientsDean steps  beside him and humps Sam’s leg like an unneutered puppy. Sam spills whey powder all over the marble countertop, but salvages what he can before he reaches into the cabinet for the stevia. Dean catches his arm, draws back the sleeve and examines the scar that runs along his wrist. “I didn’t take you for the type.”  
  
“That’s not what it is.” Sam reclaims his arm and gets back to work on the drink.  
  
“So, what is it?”  
  
“A long story.”  
  
Dean nods. “Some other time, then.”  
  
Sam spoons peanut butter into the blender. Dean busies himself with one palm on Sam’s ass and the other on his crotch while grinding against his leg. He holds his breath and tries not to press into the hand cupping his erection.  
  
“God.” The kid says, “I figured you’d be big, but fuck.”  
  
“Blueberries?” Sam’s voice cracks.  
  
Dean grips Sam’s bicep. “Shit. Still pump, huh?”  
  
“Uh, yeah.”  
  
“Man, that’s nice.” Dean leans into massaging his arm.  
  
Sam tries to ease away, to keep himself under control.  
  
It doesn’t matter. This kid is an octopus. He punches Sam’s pec a few times, but with a tender edge to it. Then, his hand inches under Sam’s shirt so he can tweak his nipple.  
  
“You don’t run at all anymore?”  
  
Sam inches a little further away. “No. I was just kidding with you. I run a few times a week.”  
  
Dean flexes his arm and holds it under Sam’s nose. "Feel."  
  
“Um. No, thanks.” Sam's hands don't belong anywhere on this kid because he is not sure he’ll be able to stop touching him if he starts.  
  
But Dean insists until Sam finally gives his arm a light pinch. It’s solid, like he expected, and it sends another surge to Sam’s cock. His pants are already stretched. Sam nods in reluctant approval and returns his attention to his blender.  
  
Dean continues to hump Sam’s thigh while loosening his belt. Sam’s body sways into him and back away. Somehow, with the blood flowing away from his brain, Sam manages to ask, “Um, how old are you, Dean?”  
  
“You changing the subject on me?” His voice is rough and warm, whispered up onto Sam’s neck.  
  
“I don’t think so. I just think it’s funny that we’ve known each other for over a month and I have no idea how old you are.”  
  
“Yeah. It’s hilarious.” Dean murmurs without a trace of amusement and flicks open Sam’s button.  
  
Sam stays his hand. “So?”  
  
Dean gazes up with huge, dark pupils. “Would you sleep better tonight if I say 18?”  
  
As Sam starts to stutter an answer, Dean slips to his knees and frees Sam from his pants.  
  
“Jesus.”  
  
His hands are even smaller than Castiel’s. One of them wraps around Sam’s shaft, but just barely. And God, it feels so good, Sam’s head falls back for a moment. He cups a hand under the boy’s chin. “Dean.”  
  
“I’m just … admiring.” Dean shakes his head in wide-eyed wonder.  
  
Sam licks his lips and lets the boy measure and assess him. Dean slides Sam’s pants further down his thighs and frowns.  
  
His palms smooth over the patchwork of welts on Sam’s skin. “What happened here?”  
  
Sam’s arousal falters. “Another long story.”  
  
“You got a lot of those.” Dean traces one stripe with his finger before leaning around to press his lips lightly to it.  
  
“Dean, I don’t…”  
  
The kid laps a bead of pre-come from the tip of Sam’s cock. Despite his best intentions, Sam groans and presses his hips forward toward that soft, warm tongue. It is amazing, but it isn’t what he wants. It isn’t what he's been fantasizing about for the last month. He reaches down and grabs the kid by his armpits to hoist him to his feet.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
Sam licks his lips and traces a single finger over the outline of Dean’s erection. “Is that okay?”  
  
“What?” Dean looks down to see where Sam is not quite touching him. “You’re not going to break it, man. Just. Fuck. Touch me like you touch you.”  
  
Sam ghosts over the boy’s crotch and Dean covers the cautious hand with his own, holds it in place until they’re both struggling for air. Sam falls to his knees and gazes up at those emerald eyes.  
  
“Holy shit.” Dean strokes Sam’s hair back from his face.  
  
“Can I?”  
  
The boy nods and watches slack-jawed as Sam kisses his cock over the fabric of his pants before he slips them down. “This is okay?”  
  
Dean’s hands clutch Sam’s shoulders. “Shit, man. You’re fucking killing me.”  
  
“You don’t like it.” Sam backs away to keep Dean from getting upset. 

Castiel never tolerated Sam so much as looking at his arousal. Sam had figured Dean would be different.  
  
Dean groans. “Just fucking do it. Please.”  
  
“You want me to?” Sam is so confused, he's on the verge of tears.  
  
“Sam. What the hell?” Dean strokes himself, his legs trembling.  
  
“I just want you to be …”  
  
Dean grabs a fistful of hair and drives his cock into Sam’s still speaking mouth. “I’m sorry. Fuck.”  
  
Once he breaches Sam’s lips, Dean drops both hands to his sides.  
  
Sam kneels, as if in prayer, on the slate floor of his kitchen with this pretty boy’s pretty cock on his tongue. He surrenders a quiet sob and cranes his neck so he can peer up at Dean.  
  
His eyes are squeezed shut, long lashes on his cheeks. “Is it okay if I … ”  
  
Dean tucks his t-shirt under his chin, easing out and back in. The muscles in his thighs twitch beneath Sam’s fingers.  
  
Everything about it is good. Sam could dwell in this temple every day of his life: his jaw forced wide, the slide of hot skin over his tongue, the firmness filling his mouth. And, God, the musky, spicy, filthy smell is better than Sam ever dreamed.  
  
He hums his appreciation and hopes it will be even half as good for Dean. The kid pats his head. “You want to stop?”  
  
Sam grips Dean’s cock and pulls off with a wet plop. “I want you to fuck my face.”  
  
“Are you serious?”  
  
Sam nods and sucks him back in. Dean combs Sam’s hair out of his face with his fingers. Then, he closes his fists tight and tilts Sam’s his face heavenward. It's too good. The way Dean moves Sam where he wants, the careful, testing thrusts. Then, he lets loose. “Oh, fuck.”  
  
One hand is on the back of Sam’s head and the other holds his chin. Sam’s eyes are watering, jaw aching. Nothing has ever hit the back of his throat this way and he panics at the breathless sensation. He grunts and pushes Dean back. The boy lets him go and stumbles. “I’m sorry.”  
  
Sam gags and coughs, swipes the spit and tears from his face.  
  
“I’m sorry, Sam. I…”  
  
He raises his leaking eyes to Dean’s and gasps. “More.”  
  
“Are you shitting me?”  
  
Sam devours that beautiful, shimmering cock. Dean clenches his ass cheeks until he is buried to the hilt. “Oh my fucking god.”  
  
Coarse, sandy pubic hairs tickle Sam’s nose and he suppresses a sneeze. Dean drags him forward and slams  into Sam’s face over and over again. Sam whimpers and whines and takes it. And God, he loves it. But it isn’t long before he has to push away again. It's too much like drowning and burning at the same time. His cock weeps like a faucet.  
  
“Dude, do you want--”  
 

“Finish.”  
  
In one harsh motion, Dean jams so far into Sam’s mouth that they both shout, only Sam’s voice is muted by cock. It’s less than a minute more when Dean wheezes, “Sam, I’m gonna…”  
  
He tries to pull out, but Sam grips him tight with both hands, binding the boy in place, forcing him to come right where he is. Dean shudders against him, filling Sam’s mouth with his briny slick. The slip of it hot down Sam’s throat is the most vulnerable, intimate experience he's ever had.  
  
“Holy fuck.” Dean draws back, legs aquiver. He holds onto the counter with both hands as he catches his breath.  
  
Sam crumbles forward with his forehead on the cold floor. He curls up, sobbing so loudly he scares himself. Dean could be thinking anything, but Sam can’t stop.  
  
“Dude. Sam.” Dean’s hand is careful on his back. “I’m sorry. I thought …”  
  
Sam shakes his head and tries to speak. Tries to tell him it’s okay. More than okay. Faltering, unintelligible sounds chokes out of him. Dean lowers himself over his back, murmuring apologies, smoothing lovely hands through Sam’s hair. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Sam, please.”  
  
Somehow, Sam brings himself to an upright position. He hauls the boy forward and clutches his neck, still weeping like a lunatic. Without planning to, he sprinkles soft, pious kisses over Dean’s cheek, down his jaw, anywhere his worshipful lips can reach. It’s the only way to express all the unspeakable gratitude, the relief, the blessed openness.  
  
When the torrent of tears eases to a mist. Sam’s chest still aches. His face and knees are in glorious pain from being on the floor so long. Sam’s cock is still fully erect when he whispers, “Thank you.”  
  
“What, are you … You okay?” Dean leans back to get a better look at him.  
  
Sam nods, before lowering his face and starting to weep again.  
  
After another long while, they both sit with their backs to the kitchen cabinets. Dean drops his head onto Sam’s shoulder. Then, he punches him in the arm. “You scared the shit out of me.”  
  
Still sniffling, Sam laughs, wraps an arm around the kid and pulls him close.

 

***

  
The afternoon passes with both of them putzing around the apartment like it’s the most natural thing in the world. They share lunch and dinner. Most of their talk is football. Not Sam’s father and not the draft. Nothing concrete, just strategy and teams.  
  
Sam has a little work to get done, so he sits next to Dean on the sofa while the kid dozes off. When was the last time he’s felt so comfortable in his own home?  
  
Although Dean snakes a hand under Sam's shirt and tries to start something up again, Sam stops him. He's freaked them both out enough for one day. Around 10:00 PM, he begrudgingly pronounces it time to drive Dean home.  


***  
  
Sam ejects the CD and searches until he finds a station that plays brash, rhythmic music with spoken word over it. “This good?”  
  
Dean nods.  
  
You can’t play football for 20 years without being exposed to rap music, it just never grew on Sam. He keeps stealing glances. The kid doesn't seem to be enjoying the music; he just stares out of the window.  
  
Out of nowhere, his face snaps around at Sam. “What? You kinky bastard.”  
  
Sam laughs, relieved by the jab. “Nothing.”  
  
“Nothing my ass. How long have you been fantasizing about that shit?”

“A long time. Did you like it?”  
  
“How could I not like you choking on my dick? Right up until you start fucking crying on the floor like I broke you or something.”  
  
Sam chuckles.  
  
“Fuck, man. What is your girl going to say when she finds out you’re a frigging cock slut?”  
  
Sam glances at him a few times more. “Dean. You know I’m gay, right?”  
  
Dean scoffs. “Don’t worry, dude. Gagging on one dick does not make you gay.”  
  
“No, I’m…” How had he not been clear? “Did you not know that?”  
  
You shitting me?”  
  
Sam shakes his head and turns to see Dean's doubtful expression. “Why would I?”  
  
“I don’t know. ‘Cause you’re like that? You like to play games.”  
  
Sam nearly pulls the car over. “You think that about me?”  
  
“I know that about you.”  
  
“You think I’ve been playing games with you?” Sam’s face heats and tenses. That accusation is far more painful than it should be.  
  
Dean goes back to staring out of his window for a while. Then, he looks back. “So, you’re telling me that wasn’t your first time?”  
  
“Oh, no. It was. It was… ” More of his life Sam can't explain.  
  
“So, what kind of fag are you? You been in the priesthood all this time?”  
  
Sam turns the music down. “Um. No. I’ve been with someone who … doesn’t enjoy that.”  
  
“A guy?”  
  
“Yeah.” Sam draws his lower lip into his mouth.  
  
“Who doesn’t like head?”  
  
“Happy to give, not to receive.” Great. Now they're talking about Castiel.  
  
Dean crosses his arms over his chest and continues his study of the darkness outside. “Bullshit.”  
  
“Everybody’s different, Dean.”  
  
“See? You’re fucking with me again.” He turns the music back up.  
  
Sam touches the button and turns the radio off. “I swear, I’m not. His name is Castiel and he is not like anyone else on earth. I guarantee you that.”  
  
“You know what? Forget it. I don’t care. It was hot. You’re hot. I don’t give a shit. Let’s talk about something else.”  
  
“Okay.” Sam waits to see where Dean will steer the conversation. When it becomes evident that no new topic is forthcoming, Sam volunteers, “How’s your season going?”  
  
Dean grunts. “All right. Your dad says he called some kind of scouts or something.”  
  
“Seriously?” Sam's dad does not stick his neck out on a whim.

“That’s what he said.”  
  
“I really have to see you play, don't I?”  
  
“You do whatever you want.” Dean leans back and closes his eyes.  
  
His hand is already on the door handle when Sam pulls up outside of his building. Sam catches Dean’s arm before he can jump out. “Hey. Are you mad at me?”  
  
“Naw, man.” The kid jerks his arm away.  
  
The thought that Sam will never see Dean again results in a moment of minor hysteria. “Dean, what did I do?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“Did you want to have turned me gay?" Sam asks. "You wanted me to be straight? Was that part of the fun for you?” He’s grasping at straws.  
  
“It’s not like that.”  
  
“So…”  
  
“I don’t know. I don’t fucking know, all right. I’m just tired or something.”  
  
“Would you please tell me what the problem is, Dean? I don’t think I can leave here if you don’t talk to me.”  
  
“Your fucking boyfriend, man. I never fucked around with a guy who had a boyfriend before.”  
  
“But you have messed around with guys before?” Sam hand selects each word.  
  
“Do I seem like a virgin to you?”

Sam backs up to give him room. “But you’re usually the one on your knees, right?”  
  
“Fuck you.” Dean starts to climb from the car again.  
  
Sam opens his hands in a gesture of harmlessness and goodwill. “Please. Look. I’m not judging, okay? I’m getting to know you.”  
  
“If you’re asking if I’ve ever been fucked. Yeah. Plenty.”  
  
Sam nods as casually as he can, though it doesn't surprise him. Dean is so pretty. His body is tight and slender. Even when he finishes growing, with his sulky features, he’ll probably still look like ‘the type.’ “Do you not like it?”  
  
Dean shrugs. “It’s okay. If the guy’s okay.”  
  
“Have you been with guys who aren’t okay?”  
  
“Haven’t you?”  
  
Sam isn’t getting anything right. It's all unraveling. This kid is going to be done with him, and Sam is going to lose his mind. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “I’ve been with one guy for the last six years and he’s the only guy I’ve ever been with.”  
  
Dean studies him for a long moment. “What, are you married to him?”

“You know, it’s funny. When I was a kid, that was never a thought that would enter your mind - that two guys could be married. And now, it’s just … crazy how completely things can change.”  
  
Dean opens the car door.  
  
“Dean.”  
  
“What?” He doesn’t even turn around to face Sam.  
  
“I’m not with him anymore. And I was never playing games with you. I was … Like I said, it was complicated. Now, it’s not. Okay?”  
  
“Whatever.” Dean slams the door behind him.

 


	14. Chapter 14

“Good morning.” Sam attempts a smile at his cubicle neighbor, Mrs. Mosely.

Judging by the awe on her face, he must have spoken in Sanskrit.

“Well, good morning, Sam. How are you today?” He’s heard her talk before, but never to him.

Her voice has the sing-songy quality of a kindergarten teacher.

“I’m okay.”

Stares shoot at him from across the room and Mrs. Mosely connects with the curious gazes.

Sam soldiers on. “And how are you?”

“I’m fantastic, Sam. Thank you for asking.”

“Of course.” Sam nods and allows himself a deep breath, as if he's accomplished his full workload for the day.

Another tight smile, then he sticks in his earbuds and retreats behind his mug of tea.

Sam lasts until around 10:00 AM, not that he gets any work done, but he stays in his seat, staring at the screen, tapping a pencil on his desk until shortly after 10. When he can’t stand it anymore, he holds a file over his lap and stands as discreetly as a man of his size can do - which means everyone in the office glances up at him.

His cheeks burn so he can assume how flushed he is as he slips down the hall and into the bathroom. He drops the Manila folder on the sink and leans his back against the stall door once it is closed behind him. Belt and fly are short work and a sigh spills from his lips the moment he touches himself. With his eyes closed and head hanging back, he jerks himself for the win. This is neither the time nor location for a long drawn out session.

Wide mouthed, he pants, shudders and turns around to press his cheek against the cool door.

It’s pitiful. He has never done anything like this in public; Dean is corrupting his mind. Sam hasn’t been completely flaccid since he dropped the kid off last night and he's beaten off more in the past twelve hours than he has since high school: in bed before he fell asleep, this morning after he awoke, and once again in the shower.

Now, he’s oversensitive and chafed, but it doesn’t matter. Precome and spit make the glide easier, Sam loosens his grip and yanks himself with all the finesse of a teenager. Dean's odor, the taste of him, that weight on Sam's tongue, warm flesh filling his mouth, fingers tight in his hair.

“Fuck, Dean.”

Sam presses his lips together and tries to control his breathing, but a whimper escapes, making way for a groan that he stifles behind clenched teeth.

He wipes his brow with the sleeve of his jacket, waiting until he regains enough composure to go out among people.

“Jesus.”

Before he leaves the stall, he cleans up with a wad of toilet paper - should have prepared better than this. This boy has turned Sam's brain into a sex-crazed mush.

 

***

 

Dean grins, slick as oil. While the teacher’s back is turned, he slouches down, holds his phone between his stomach and the desk to check out what Sam sent.

SW: Learning anything?  
DS: How to sleep with my eyes open. Fucking Voltaire  
SW: Interesting guy  
DS: Not  
SW: Need a break?  
DS: Always  
SW: Can I take you to lunch? You guys can still leave campus, right?  
DS: I wish

DS: Why?

Sam takes a moment to reply.

SW: Just wanted to see you

Dean smiles.

DS: You saw me yesterday

SW: I want to see you now

DS: Aren’t you working?

SW: Took half the day off. Couldn’t concentrate

DS: Where you at?

Dean squints and then laughs at the picture Sam sends of the front of Dean’s school.

DS: WTF?

SW: See if you can find me

 

***

 

The corner of Sam’s lip curls up the moment he sees the kid in jeans, a Stones T-shirt with some kind of goop that makes his hair stick up today. Looks good.

Dean smiles, too and casts a glance over his shoulder before he enters the grove. From this vantage, they can see the runners in PE rounding the track, but there’s still enough red, orange and gold foliage to keep Sam and Dean hidden. Dean stuffs his hands in his back pocket and stares a hole into the crotch of Sam’s pants. He gets a show for his trouble; Sam was already hard when he arrived. His cock dances at the sight of its new favorite person.

Sam holds out his arm. “Come here.”

Dean takes a step, then he stops and grips an overhead branch. “You come here.”

Sam kicks off from the tree where he was leaning, shoes crunching over those of the leaves that have already fallen. When he’s toe to toe with Dean, his tongue peeks out and Dean's thumb chases it.

Sam’s cock strains at his zipper like it has never been tamed. He's breathing so loud, heart pounding and the hot ache in his chest isn’t relieved when he wraps a hand around the nape of Dean’s neck. If anything, it gets worse. “I, uh…”

Dean palms Sam’s crotch, smirking like it’s his property. “You wanted to give me lunch?”

“I wanted to … take you...” Sam runs his knuckles over the bruise on Dean’s face. “Is this…”

“Your ace driving, man. You ought to make it up to me.”

Sam searches over Dean’s shoulder. “They’ll be able to see us.”

“You think so?”

“Maybe.”

“Then, you better be quick.” The kid opens his pants and Sam goes to his knees.

 

***

 

Sunlight brings out the flecks of fall colors in Sam's eyes. Dean’s a little breathless and already addicted to his cologne. With any luck, if he presses up against him, he’ll have it on his clothes. The girlishness of that thought makes him cringe, but the warm heat engulfing his dick is a more pressing matter.

“Shit.” He grips that branch to keep from falling over.

Sam has lowered his jeans just enough to free him. From the back, if anyone can see Dean in the woods, it’ll just look like he’s standing there, maybe taking a piss. But that little bit of fabric in the way does not stop Sam from taking Dean all the way down his throat.

“God damn, Sam.”

Sam grins up at him. “Good?”

Dean swipes a hand over Sam’s silk-soft hair, leans down and kisses him. “It’s fucking amazing.”

Sam dives again, all the way until his lips touch Dean’s pubes. Sam responds to praise; good to know. He stays there like that, gagging like a pro while Dean’s knees tremble, balls clench. He stumbles forward. “Fucking Christ.”

Sam slides back and licks the tip. He does this thing with his tongue where he swirls it around and then dips it into the slit. Dean is a mess of trembling awe and helplesness, and he has never heard that sound come out of his own mouth - or anyone else’s, for that matter.

His guts are all hot and tied up, and Sam is so perfect and greedy for him. He left work early to come see him. Dean caresses his hair; it’s just so fucking nice. Everything about him. This soft, fuzzy emotion curls up in Dean's belly, kind of like what you get when you look at puppies too long. It’s not a feeling he’s had before; it's not one he wants.

He brings his other hand to Sam’s shoulder and drives his hips, hard, into the guy’s face - without any warning or anything. It’s an asshole thing to do. These days, Dean would deck a guy who tried to pull that kind of shit on him. Sam moans. Without pulling off, he nudges into the hand on his head. It must mean Sam doesn’t want to be touched and Dean drops it away. That’s fine. He hates when guys do that to him, too. Prefers to set his own fucking pace.

Sam's glassy eyes turn up and he moans in what could be disappointment. He puts Dean’s hand back on his head, holds Dean’s dick and pulls off to whisper, “Pull it.”

Dean's fingers curl in that silky shit, and he yanks so hard, Sam is going to beat his ass for it.

“Oh God. I fucking love that.”

His cheeks hollow with every slide. One hand works the base of Dean’s shaft, the other rolls his balls like he’s got stress to work out.

“I’m…” Dean grips Sam’s hair, body buzzing, white hot.

That moment of tightness is almost unbearable before the planet shifts. Dean shoots, shivering and half insane with how good it is. Sam swallows every drop, moaning like it’s the best meal he’s ever had.

He gazes up at Dean like he's the Pope or somebody’s dad or something, with all this adoration and tenderness. Dean clears his throat, takes a step back and puts his junk away. “You’re next.”

Sam hadn’t let Dean bring him off yesterday. And while Dean might be a jerk sometimes, he would never leave a guy hanging like that.

“Okay.” Sam climbs to his feet and adjusts himself. “But not here.”

 

***

  

The half hour drive is more than worth it to Sam. The thicker the woods grow around them, the more the tension rolls off his body.

“You’re not gonna chop me up or something?” Dean peers around himself and he’s only half joking.

Sam smiles and reaches for his hand. Dean looks down at the offer but keeps himself out of reach. It can’t be that he’s worried about spectators. There’s not a soul for miles. Only whippoorwills' songs and squirrels rustling the leaves. They might see a raccoon or a fox, if they’re lucky. All the frogs are gone this late in the year. Sam huffs to himself and makes a mental note - the kid likes his space, sometimes.

When Sam was Dean’s age, he had always imagined what it would be like to bring someone out to these woods. Someone he wanted to be here with. Someone he’d want to kiss and touch and just be alone with.

There hadn’t been anybody like that for him in high school. Yeah, sure. He had Jessica, but the whole point of being with her was for everyone to see it. No point coming out here. If he’d ever showed her this place, she would have expected Sam to go for second base and he didn’t want that any more than she did. She was a church girl and what they had was perfect for back then. Just like what he has with Dean is perfect now.

Almost perfect.

Dean is perfect. And he's Sam’s, sort of.

At the sight of the creek, Dean jogs ahead. By the time Sam reaches him, he’s out of his shoes and socks and has rolled up his pants like Huckleberry Finn. His arms flap a little bit as he tiptoes over the pebbles. The moment his toes touch the water, he hisses and looks back at Sam, mouth forming an O. “Cold as fuck.”

Sam laughs as he settles on the bank and leans back on his elbows, still propped up so he can watch.

Cold as fuck, but Dean goes in anyway, an inch at a time, but intrepid. Maybe he’s that type - who does things for pride. What else motivates him? Not for the first time, he wonders what Dean saw, why he wanted Sam, what this thing, this fling, means to him. Sam sits up, crosses his legs and rests his chin on a fist.

“You should come get in here.” Dean gestures. “It’ll shrivel your balls right up.”

Sam shakes his head and laughs despite the fact that it’s complete nonsense. “Why would I do that?”

Dean shrugs. “Just to do it.”

 

***

 

Sam’s chest is warm. His heart beats slow and steady under Dean’s cheek. His arm is draped over Dean’s shoulder, fingers splayed between his ribs. Dean’s hand runs as far up into his pit and back down to his thigh as it’ll go in this position. This guy’s body is insane.

Dean has been with big guys before, built guys. Must be a magnet for them, but Sam is a Greek god: chiseled and beautiful. Dean sticks out his tongue to see if he can reach Sam’s nip without moving his head. Not quite. Sam’s massive fucking dick twitches against his thigh. Dean had managed about half of it before he gave up and let his hand do the other half of the work.

As much as Sam likes to choke, Dean had been expecting to get pushed around and whatnot. He would have put up with a little bit of that for Sam’s sake, but he hates that shit.

But Sam had laid perfectly still. His hand had brushed the back of Dean’s neck once then he had dropped it onto the ground at his side and let Dean do his thing.

Dean has been told, on various occasions, that he’s a gifted cocksucker, which might have more to do with guys’ obsession with his mouth in the first place. But Sam didn’t say anything. Once Dean spat that slimy shit out, Sam had laid there and waited for Dean to crawl back up his body and search his face for feedback.

Sam’s eyes fluttered open, his pretty pink mouth parted, but he still didn’t say anything.

“Was that okay?” It wasn’t something Dean had ever been insecure about before.

Head is like pizza: you can’t really fuck it up unless you try. There had been a handful of times in Dean’s life when he had gotten toothy on purpose or sloppy and lackluster. For Sam, he gave it like he'd want to get it.

When Sam bit his lip and shook his head, Dean sat up on his knees and ran his hands down his thighs. He fixed his eyes on a nearby tree and muttered, “Sorry.”

It ached like a javelin through his chest. As Dean stood and started to walk away, Sam caught his ankle.

“It was…”

Dean looked down at him: his hair spread out in the grass, the peaceful look on his face. His pants were still open - mouth, too. “You liked it?”

Sam snickered, just a little. “Yeah. Now, would you please, kiss me?”

Both of their lips had been otherwise occupied since they met. Was that really just yesterday? He smiled and straddled Sam’s chest. Looking down at the guy’s mouth, Dean might develop an obsession of his own.

Like most white people, other than Angelina Jolie, Sam’s lips are thinner than Dean’s, but there's a sensuous curve to them, especially when he smiles. And he has this maddening habit of wetting them every couple of minutes.

Sam's hand cupped Dean’s face, the other on the small of his back. He licked his lips before they parted again, in anticipation.

Dean was going to remember this kiss for the rest of his life. His heart did that thing again - that clenching, sinking, aching thing it had started doing the moment he saw Sam at the track yesterday. Maybe there had even been a foreshadow of it the first time Dean saw him. All that crap crashed in on him, and he couldn’t move.

Sam's hands retreated. “You don’t have to.”

“I don’t think I want to, man. Sorry.” Dean’s heart ached, but he could deal with private pain.

Sam was trying to smile, but doing a miserable job of it. His lips twitched and curled like he wanted to tell Dean it was okay, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to say the words.  
  
Dean didn’t give a fuck whether it was okay with Sam or not; he wasn’t going to kiss this dude. At least not until he got this emotion shit under control. He slapped Sam’s flank twice. “Come get in the water.”

At first, it didn't seem that Sam was going to do it. He hemmed and hawed and watched Dean shuck his clothes like a bad habit. The whole time, Sam shook his head.

Once Dean was up to his thighs and shivering, he looked back over his shoulder to see Sam folding his pants _. "You fucking nerd."_

He smiled and waited until Sam was naked. That turned out to be a mistake. The moment Sam had rolled his socks together, he charged like Dean was wearing red. Dean had tried to dodge him, but he was every bit as fast and powerful as he looked. He hurled his body forward, dragging them both under the icy surface. 

That was a few hours ago. Now, they’re laying on the shore, like a couple of lizards. The sun is still shining, but it ain’t exactly tropical. Dean’s got goosebumps everywhere. Sam had warmed up again pretty much the moment they crawled out of the water. So, Dean had curled himself against his skin and soaked up that heat.

He lays there, listening to Sam’s heart beat steady as a clock.

“SHIT!”

 

***

 

Sam jumps. He hadn’t expected the shout.

It's been a long time since he's had anything like that fun in the water. It was so good to lay with Dean afterward that he must have fallen asleep. If that’s all the kid wants - fun that feels good - Sam can do that.

Dean checks Sam’s watch and swears again. He hops to his feet and into his jeans, bypassing the boxers. Sam folds his hands behind his head. There out to be a fee to watch this kid do anything. He moves like mercury.

“Practice?” Sam asks, already knowing the answer.

He scratches his belly.

Dean tucks his socks into his pockets. “Your dad’s going to kill me. I’m already 15 minutes late.”

As Dean pulls on his shirt, Sam wraps a hand around his shin. “Then skip it.”

“I can’t.” He shakes his foot, kicking Sam’s hand away.

“You know, in two years, I never blew off work before today.”

“Well, good for you. I can't ditch practice. Are you going to drive me or do I have to run?” Dean pulls on his plaid flannel.

Sam sits up with a groan, to express how much he regrets the moment being over. He uses his socks to knock sand from his feet.

“Can you fucking hurry up?” Dean kicks Sam’s shoe toward him.

It knocks against his knee which doesn’t hurt at all, but Sam blinks up and presses his lips together. His tone a little too familiar.

Dean says a tight, “Please,” and doesn’t speak again, even once they’re in the car.

His fingers drum on his thighs; his toes taps. He groans when Sam slows for a yellow light.

Sam rolls his eyes. “You want me to disobey the traffic signs?”

“I want you to stop being a bitch and get me to the school.”

Cold washes over Sam's skin. When they pull up in front of the building, he turns to face out of his window.

Dean doesn’t hop right out. “Look…” He pauses like he’s trying to remember the words to an apology. “You ought to come say hi to your dad.”

Sam scoffs. It must be a joke. “Yeah. Not a good idea.”

“So, you’re just going to leave?”

This is as close to contrition as Sam’s going to get right now, so he meets him halfway. “You want me to stay?”

“I’m not going to fucking beg you.”

“Why not?”

“Fuck you.” Dean chuckles.“Come watch me throw.”

Sam shakes his head. It’s not that he doesn’t want to see Dean play, but he hasn't forgotten his father's reaction at the party. Sam can do without the fresh dose of humiliation, especially in front of Dean. If his dad ignores him with Dean standing right there… Sam just doesn’t want to deal with it, today or probably ever.

Dean gets out, takes a couple of steps, then he turns around and spreads his arms. “Or go home. Whatever. I’ll see you when I see you.”

 

***

 

Even when that punk Ash runs backwards, he’s still dusting everyone. Dean is close, but this fucker is plain fast. Dean runs and turns up his nose at something sharp kicking at him from the inside. Might be Envy. Could be Hate.

A grin cracks Ash’s stupid face. “Come on, slowpokes. Last one of you in has to suck Miller’s dick.”

Nobody's laughing except for Ash. He spins back around and takes off like he’s got turbo boosters sticking out of his ass.

Dean knuckles down, but with six laps to go, he’s not trying to kill himself before practice even starts. Today, he comes in third after this lanky senior, Todd Something. Once practically everyone is on the sideline, panting, with their hands on their knees, Ash crows, “Come on, Glenn, you lard ass. Move it.”

Glenn always is the last one to complete his laps. He’s tubby as hell and useful when it comes time for blocking. Speed is never going to be his strong suit.

Ash must have had his Wheaties this morning because he is not letting up. He cups his hands around his cake hole and shouts, “ You really want Dean’s meat, don’t you? You fucking slow ass faggot. Pick up those fat feet, God damn it.”

That sharp thing when Dean looks at Ash? It’s Hate. Definitely Hate. Dean can’t help wondering if, after spending the day with Sam, he’s giving off some kind of gay-diation. Guys like Ash always have a sixth sense for weakness.

Dean could say something, tell Ash to lay off, but who wants that kind of attention? Coach Winchester watches Glenn with this stern, unreadable look on his face. What would the old man say if he knew his own son was gay. What would John Winchester do if he knew that Dean had fucked his son’s face this afternoon in that forest right over there?

It isn’t until they get out on the green and Dean starts tossing that he notices Sam. The sun is behind where he’s sitting, way the hell up in the bleachers. Dean has to squint, but that's his light blue blazer and tan pants. The smile happens before he can stop himself. He hurls the next one dead center into Donovan’s chest. The receiver stumbles back a few steps.

Dean smirks up at Sam. He better have seen that one. Dean is just about to send the ball sailing again when the coach uses his clipboard to shield his eyes. He hands it over to assistant coach Ottinger and starts marching up toward Sam.

 

***

 

 

Sam’s heart stops pumping his burning blood. He searches right and left for the best escape route. In the end, he sits still as an a possum. As loud as his heart is pounding, there’s no way he’s fooling anyone.

It doesn't matter that Sam has six inches on his old man and a barrel chest of his own. Some roles are indelible. Perception is reality. Sam could even spout all the psycho babble that explains why he shrinks back and lets his shoulders droop; why his chin and eyes drop as his father’s footsteps rattle the bleachers. He stops one level below Sam with his nostrils flaring, perhaps from the exertion of the climb. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Hi, Dad.” Sam’s voice is thin and small, like a little kid to his own ears.

John Winchester sounds exactly the same as he always has: strong and in command. “You need to go.”

“I’m just sitting here.” Sam’s eyes flick down to the field.

Dean is watching. Everyone is watching. His father turns and no doubt sees the same thing.  
“You’re distracting my players.”

“They look good.” Sam closes his eyes for a second to reboot. “I mean, they’re playing well.”

“Go home, Sam.”

Sam stands and opens his mouth to argue, defend himself, say anything.

“Get the fuck off my bleachers, boy!”

Sam chokes on the air in his lungs and holds his breath to stop the sting. Somehow he strangles out, “Yes, sir.”

Sam doesn't look for Dean on his way off the field, doesn't want to see what kind of expression is on his face as Sam turns tail.

Maybe tears would put out the fire behind his face, but they don’t come. Other than the agony of Dean having witnessed that, he doesn’t feel anything but the same void that accompanies any thoughts of his father.

“Sam Winchester?” Mrs. Aldridge, the librarian - or at least she was in his day - smiles up at him. “Oh, honey. I always wondered when you'd breeze back through these hallways. Haven't seen you in... how on earth have you been?"

Sam’s brain scrambles for an answer, but it turns out not to be necessary.

" I've asked your father over and again how you are. You know we were all rooting for you so hard and then ... Everyone around here always said when you got through with ball you'd go on and do something even greater. I had my money on space science. I think half of the faculty said law. At one point your mother told me you had studied medicine. I said, those hands are probably too big for brain surgery,” she cackles, “but I know he'll save a lot of lives. Is that what you’re doing?”

“Um. Accounting, actually.” He clears the catch in his throat.

Her eyes grow wide for a moment. “Hm... well, that’s an honest living, isn’t it?... You know where to find your dad?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Sam sits in his car, reading the same passage of Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom over and over again.

 _\- I was wrong. I admit it. I believed that there were things which still mattered just because they had mattered once. But I was wrong. Nothing matters but_ breath _, breathing, to know and to be alive. -  
_

A couple hours later, Dean opens and shuts the door. “Well, that was brutal. What the fuck did you do?”

“Can we not?” Sam’s voice is shot, as if he's been sobbing.

Dean shrugs and turns on the radio. His rock music blares out, the station still tuned from when they’d left the school. He taps the button again and the car floods with Dvorak’s Stabat Mater.

Now, Sam cries. Not out loud, thank God, but a silent hot river runs down his face. He shakes his head, disgusted with himself and incredulous. This is the second time in two days that Dean has seen him lose it.

_Am I going to cry every time I see this kid?_

Dean switches off the cantata, apparently assuming it's the problem. They’re both quiet for a moment. Then Dean begins to sing softly and horribly out of tune,  
"Don't cry, don't raise your eye.  
It's only teenage wasteland.”

Sam blinks at him.

Dean shrugs. “It’s what I got.”

Sam sob-laugh-snorts, sniffs in a mess of snot. He hides his face in the crook of his arm until he has pulled himself together. He huffs, meets Dean’s eyes and reaches for his hand. Just as quickly, Dean slips it away from his grasp. That stings, more than a little, but Sam nods and starts the car.

Dean’s hand comes to rest on Sam’s tender, overused, and self-sabotaging-ly captivated cock.

 

***

 

“You know this isn’t a date, right?” Dean says, because he’s an asshole and that’s the kind of thing assholes say.

He says it more to himself than Sam, it just happened to be out loud, and Sam happens to be sitting here, so, he probably overheard.

“That’s fine. You sure you didn’t want anything else?”

Dean pats his stomach. “I’m stuffed, man. Thanks.”

“Of course.” Sam gives a tight little smile that says he hasn’t forgotten what went down with his dad - and who can blame him?

And he’s probably still pissed at Dean for being a douche by the creek.

“Sometimes life hands you a bag of dicks.”

“What?” Sam’s bitch face starts to crack into a small, confused smile.

The waitress picks up the check along with Sam’s credit card. Dean leans back in his seat to watch her go.

Sam clears his throat. “You were saying.”

Dean blinks.

“Bag of dicks?”

Dean has to smile at that one. “You’d love that, wouldn’t ya?”

Sam would die of asphyxiation if he had a bag of dicks.

"ASS-fixation." Dean chuckles to himself.

Sam shakes his head, way too adult too much of the time. Not his fault, though. Nobody’s perfect. Sam’s fucking close, but there had to be something wrong with him other than that nasty-ass rabbit food he had for dinner. Dean laughs again.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.”

When the waitress with the cute ass returns with Sam’s credit card, she leans forward and says, “ I’m sorry, sir. It was declined. “

Sam looks up at her like she’s speaking a different language. “That’s not possible.”

“I tried it three times, sir. Do you have another one you can use?”

Sam gawks down at his card, shakes his head and pulls out his wallet. While he’s rifling through his plastic, Dean leans up on his side to pull a wad of bills from his pocket.

“ Hey. I got a little cash.”

“No. That’s not--” Sam protests, but Dean has already given the girl a crumpled twenty.

She blushes and refers to her receipt. “It’s ... um .. $42.74.”

“For a couple burritos and a salad? Glad I didn’t get that second slice of pie.” Dean lays all he's got on the table.

Sam takes the twenty from her and replaces it with a different card. “Try this one, please.”

“Dude. I got it.”

Sam offers him back the money. “Please, put it away.”

“Is this some kind of thing with you?” Dean’s voice is tense and starting to raise, although even he isn't sure why.

“I want to do this for you. When you have a job, you can take me to dinner, okay?”

“I have a job.”

Sam purses his lips and looks up as the waitress approaches and shakes her head. His mouth falls open.

Dean smiles and says, “Can you give us a second, please, Mandy?”

She mirrors his ease, nods and walks away.

Sam shakes his head, staring at his card. “That can’t be.”

“So, listen. You got any change in between your seats?”

Sam’s head goes on shaking, like he’s trapped in a loop of disbelief.

“Yeah. I didn’t think so. Well, I got thirty-three bucks. So, we’re either going to have bolt, wash dishes or get creative.”

***

 

Sam makes a call to his bank. After about half an hour of tedium, frustration and redirected calls, the representative confirms what Mandy said: all of Sam’s accounts are blocked. Not empty, thank God, but blocked. They can only rectify it when he comes in person, during business hours - tomorrow.

“All right. I got this.” Dean spins in his seat.

When he turns back again, he nods, his face set in stone-cold concentration. “Just sit tight. If you get up, Mandy’s manager’s going to call the cops.”

“What are you…”

Dean winks at him and slides out of the booth. On his way across the room, his hand brushes over the arm of a middle-aged man in a sport coat who is dining alone. Dean turns around and makes an elaborate show of apologizing. He puts his hand over the man’s, looks in his eye with a smile Sam has never seen. It’s all syrup and grade school. He tilts his head, just so and repeats the apology.

Sam’s no flirt, but he fucking well knows what it looks like.

Dean has been gone a little under a minute before the man searches over his shoulder at Sam and leaves his table. Heat flashes in Sam’s chest, and he rises out of his seat. A few people look at him and he, eases back down. His hands curl into fists on the table, toes tapping beneath it.

Dean wouldn’t …

Sam doesn’t know Dean. He has no idea what Dean would do.

The man is gone for under two minutes. He returns with some inscrutable look. Sam is not a violent person, but it wouldn't be dificult to go over and bash this stranger’s skull in. As he’s going over the pros and cons, his phone goes off.

DS: Handled. Meet me at the car.

Sam sits there. Can’t move. Breathes through his nose.

“Sorry for the confusion,” Mandy says, as she starts to clear the dishes from in front of him.

Finally, Sam manages to stand and walk towards the door, but his body is heavy and strange, as if he’s moving through water. He stops behind the guy. He turns and shrinks back. Sam glares down at him. What is he supposed to do?

“Sam.”

Sam’s face snaps up at the sound of Dean’s voice.

“What the hell are you doing? Come on.“

Sam shakes off the daze and follows. Dean is leaning on the car with his arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles.

“What did you do?“

“Didn’t do shit.” The kid has gum.

Sam scratches the back of his neck and huffs. “He just gave you twenty bucks?”

“Only had a fifty. Rich people.”

“Dean, what did you…”

“I gave him a bullshit story and a fake number. So, maybe we should get the hell out of here.” He stalks around to the passenger door.

Sam drives in silence for a while before asking, “How did you know?”

“He was watching me like a hawk when we came in the place. Kept turning around to look. I guess you didn’t notice that.” Dean bites his lower lip, nodding his head in sharp, jerky movements to the rock song he’s turned on.

So Sam sat there the whole time while some creep was leering at Dean. He should have given that guy the beat down after all. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“What? I’m supposed to cry ‘cause some guy is looking at me? People are allowed to look. Ended well. Not a big deal.” The song ends; Dean starts flipping through the stations.

There are other questions, now, that Sam wants to ask. Questions with answers that would make him crazy. He bites down on them, opens the window to let the crisp air cool him off.

 

***

 

Dean steals a glance from time to time. Sam is freaked out and itching to give him the third degree, but he doesn’t say anything else, and Dean doesn’t volunteer any more information. This is one of those classic ‘you can’t handle the truth’ moments.

Dean pops in one of Sam’s classical CDs.

“I have to go to the bank crazy early in the morning," Sam says. "I’m sorry. I’m gonna just take you home.”

“That’s fine.” It’s not fine and Dean’s biting a hole in his cheek.

They should have just bolted. What the hell was he thinking, doing something like that in front of Sam? The guy is… he’s never going to want to talk to him again. “You think I’m…”

“I don’t know what to think,” Sam answers as if he’s been waiting for the question.

“I didn’t do anything with him.” Dean refuses to apologize because he’s telling the truth.

“I believe you.” Sam's eyes never leave the road.

“I mean, what kind of guy goes on a date and does something like that?” Maybe the 'date' thing will smooth it over.

“The whole thing is my fault, and I’m sorry.”

“What do you mean?”

“If my… “ Sam lets out a long breath. “Someone is messing with my accounts.”

“Like identity fraud?” He and Jody had stolen more than a few credit cards in their madcap adventures.

Had they ever left anybody in this kind of lurch?

“Something like that.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“Yes, it is.”  
  
Once the car pulls up in front of his building, Dean doesn’t get out. He has to fix this. Grabs for Sam’s hand so fast he busts his own on the gear shift, curses, shakes out the pain and spits out, “Come up? For just a second.”

“I don’t know if it’s -”

“I just want to make you come one more time tonight. You don’t have to stay long or anything.” Dean palms Sam’s crotch. He’s already getting hard. “I guess, we could do it here.”

“Dean.” Sam stops his hand.

So, this is how he blows it. There’s not anything else Dean can do but take his shit and get out of Sam’s fucking car. “Fine.”

 

***

 

 

Sam runs a hand down his face and sighs. Dean is halfway up the walkway when he leans out of the driver’s door and shouts. “Hey. I need some, uh… water.”

Dean smirks. “Right this way, sir.”

Sam follows him up ten flights of stairs. There’s an interesting odor on every story: urine, vomit, disinfectant and other chemical smells Sam can’t place.

“Humble abode, meet Sam.”

The kitchen furnishings consist of a square poker table and two steel folding chairs. Cockroaches scuttle over a pile of take-out containers in the sink. ‘Humble’ is an understatement.

Sam has never been in a place like this, was not aware that Americans live in this level of squalor. It’s an indignity he can hardly stand for Dean to endure. But it is way too soon for what Sam has (embarrassingly, even in the privacy of his thought) already been thinking.

That’s a discussion for after a couple of years, not a couple of days. Sam can’t think of anything nice to say, so he says, “It’s nice.”  
  
“It’s not.” Dean tosses his key on the table.

“Sure, it is,” Sam argues for no reason.

“Dude. I’ve seen where you grew up. I’ve seen where you live now. So, you don’t have to blow smoke up my ass. This place is better than sleeping outside, but not by much.” He hands Sam a beer from the fridge and takes one for himself.

The kid leads Sam to the living room where a tattered, gray sofa rests like a hoary, worn out elephant. There’s a 13" television on another steel chair. Besides that, the room is bare.

“Can I see your room?” Sam asks. Maybe it will be a little better.

“You’re standing in it.”

“Where do you sleep?”

Dean spreads his arms to present the sofa. He turns on the TV and drops himself onto the couch. “No DVD player. No cable. We do, however, have 4 channels of shit to choose from.”

Sam settles next to him. There is no way he’s going to waste his time watching TV with this exquisite creature next to him.

Dean knocks his knee into Sam’s. “Would you quit looking at me?”

“I don't think so. Probably not ever.”

Dean chuckles, puts down his beer and crawls into Sam’s lap. With his hands resting on Sam's shoulders, he licks his lips, maintaining predatory eye contact. As desperately as Sam wants that mouth on his, he can't quite complain when it's clamped onto his neck. Waves of heat rush through him and he holds Dean in place with a hand on his neck and one around his waist.

Sam's head falls back against the sofa when the kid slips to the floor between his knees. He spreads his arms out wide, giving Dean his way, because that how Dean likes it. Sam's cock is raw as ground meat, but he can't find it in himself to decline this.

He winces as Dean pulls him out.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” he lies. “Little sensitive. Just take it easy down there.”

Dean responds to that with a soft kiss to the tip and a tongue in the slit. Sam grips the fabric on the sofa and lets out a groan that is as much about pleasure as pain. This kid is so fucking talented.

Dean must have heard that a thousand times before, maybe not in the most pleasant contexts. As if he can sense how tense Sam is about being touched right now, his lips are wide; they hardly close around him at all, giving Sam only warmth, no pressure.

It’s perfect. Dean is perfection.

“Oh, God.”

A door creaks, perhaps in an adjoining apartment.

“Well, aren't you loud?” There’s no mistaking a half-naked girl especially when she's close enough to kicks Dean’s leg. “Hey, little shit.”

Dean never even comes up for air. He waves her away with one arm. Sam pulls him off and scrambles to shut his pants as the girl chuckles and shakes her head.

Ignoring all the skin is not an option. Her legs are short and trim. A pale sliver of flesh peeks out between the silken fabric of her matching top and panties. The top half of a pink crescent shaped scar peeks out from the lace adorning her clavicle. She’s not the same girl from the photo, although she’s dark-haired, too. This girl is slimmer and less dressed. Sam’s sunken heart reaction is no different.

It's indecent to stare at her, so he looks away. Would Dean bring him here with a girl waiting? Sam tries to piece together whether it's a prank or Dean’s idea of punishment.

Dean just wipes his mouth with the back of his arm.

Sam ventures another look and in the faint glow of the TV, she's not a girl at all, but a young woman with yellowing bruises on her face. She is a good deal older than Dean, maybe a few years younger than Sam himself - and pretty. Even with the marks, she is lovely, with delicate features and a slight figure that Sam can imagine nestled against Dean’s lithe body. She must be a better fit than Sam’s hulking form ever would.

The salad in his stomach starts to revolt, trying to escape the way it came in.

The woman looks Sam over like he’s a shit smear on the bottom of her bare foot. “This your coach?”

Dean doesn’t even look at her. “Jody, this is Sam. Sam, Jody.”

Sam stands, more out of habit than respect. Jody gapes at his outstretched hand but doesn't deign to shake it. Her eyes do, however, flicker to his crotch. “Well, he’s fucking huge, isn’t he?”

Dean shakes his head at her crass remark and starts flicking through the channels. ”You ever see Encino Man?”

Sam wipes his ignored hand on his slacks.

“Well, she’s actually a neanderthal.”

Jody looks back and forth between them. “Wait a minute. Did you do that to his face?”

“No. Yes, but no. Not intentionally. I wouldn’t...”

She aims her interrogation at Dean now. “What, while he was fucking you?”

“Jody. Get lost.”

“That's what you like?”

“Oh, my God.” Dean throws his hands up. “There was a minor car accident, okay?”

“So, you were blowing him.” She nods, like she’s cracked the case.

“Jody. Shut up!" Dean points at the kitchen. "Go get your whatever and leave us alone.”

“Don't you let him fucking hit you.”

“He's not ... “ Dean looks up Sam. ”He's not like that.”

“They never are at first.” Jody scowls at Sam, flips him off and continues into the kitchen.

Sam huffs and drops back onto the sofa beside Dean again. “I’m sorry. Is she your sister?”

“More like my roommate?”

“More like his mother.” Jody returns to the living room with a beer. She stands behind the sofa with her arms folded.

“What do you want?” Dean asks.

“Can’t I look?” She mumbles like a sulky child, still scrutinizing Sam.

Dean waves her off. “No. Go to bed.”

“You know, Sam, my son is quite the little whore, but he doesn’t usually bring them home.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “Sometimes they’ve already been here, Jojo.”

Jody sneers at Sam as if he had made the sassy remark. “Is that what you like about him? His smart mouth?”

“You know what, Jody?” Dean leaps from the couch, grabs her elbow and drags her into the kitchen.

Sam tries not to listen, but their voices are still audible, even over the nonsense on the television.

Dean asks, “What is your problem?”

“Why would you say something like that? It makes me sound like --”

“Look, I’ve got company. I’m not going to do this with you now.”

“What do you expect? I come out of my room, and you’re on your fucking knees --"

“How many times have I caught you on your knees, Jody? Huh? Sam is okay. And he’s going to stay until I say he has to leave.”

Dean storms back to the couch. Jody tromps across the living room and slams the door behind her. Sam sits his beer on the floor. “Should I go? I should probably just go.”

Dean rests a hand on Sam’s knee. “I don’t want you to.”

“But I should.”

The bedroom door opens again. This time Jody stomps over and bows so low that Sam can feel her hot, foul breath on his face. She reeks of the cheap beer they’re all drinking mixed with gastric acid and whatever she had for dinner. “Why are you fucking a 15-year-old?”

 

***

 

 

“Sam? Sam?”

 

Sam’s brain comes back online to what sounds like his name being spoken underwater. Or maybe Sam is underwater and that’s why he can’t breathe.

Dean is calling him. Dean, who is fifteen. Dean, who Sam has definitely touched in some inappropriate and illegal ways. That Dean is fifteen, and he’s calling Sam.

Sam stands up and leaves because there isn’t anything else to do.

He is aware of 15-year-old Dean following him, calling out to him. The boy’s feet pitter patter after Sam down the steps. Someone is yelling behind one of these paper thin walls. Loud music on another floor. A baby cries.

Sam can’t gather his thoughts enough to respond until they are on the sidewalk in front of the building. He takes a gulp of fresh air, turns and asks, “Is it true?”

“Does it matter?”

The sound that spills from Sam’s throat can only be described as deranged laughter. It ends as abruptly as it erupts.

“She forgot my birthday,” Dean adds.

“So, you're 16?” Sam closes his eyes and tries to process it. “Jesus.” He huffs and covers his mouth with his hand. “Yes, Dean, it matters, because, for one thing, I don't want to go to jail.”

“She's not going to call the cops. I don't even know what her deal is. She probably just wanted to get laid tonight and didn’t.”

“Good night, Dean.” Sam folds himself into his car.

His tires screech against the pavement as he drives off, too fast, but nowhere near fast enough. 

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

Dean locks the apartment door and drags himself through the kitchen as if he’s trudging through mud.

Jody stands by her door, waiting with her arms folded. “Dean, this guy…”

“Don't.” Somehow, he speaks instead of screaming. His entire body is shaking, and if Jody crosses the floor right now, her safety is not guaranteed. “Do not fucking talk to me.”

“You’re going to thank me. I have warned you over and over again about this. You don’t get attached. I saw the way you looked at that guy. Like he’s the sun and the fucking moon instead of some overgrown pedophile.”

Dean hurls a shoe at her. He could have easily taken her head off, but he misses on purpose and puts a dent in the drywall. Jody gets the message and retreats into her room.

He lays there for a long time, with both of his hands wrapped around the phone.

Around midnight, he sends:

DS: Hey

A couple hours after that:

DS: That's it, huh?

Two messages is Dean's limit. A guy’s got to have some pride.

At 3:13 AM, he thumbs in:

Think I left my wallet in your car

But he doesn’t send it. Sam would see right through that bull; Dean doesn’t even own a wallet.

“Fuck.” He tosses the phone across the room and glues his eyes to the TV like his sanity depends on it.

 

***

 

Sam silences the alarm on his phone, not that he'd slept. His body may as well be made of lead. Every movement is toil: getting up, the shower, the drive. Sitting upright in the bank requires so much energy.

It's good that he skipped breakfast. This whole thing with his accounts is enough to turn his stomach inside out. He should have seen it coming.

The last time Castiel left, he had emptied 15K from Sam’s checkings account in under a day. Luckily, some algorithm had alerted the bank to the abnormal spending patterns and Sam had been able to safeguard his Simple Savings before that was wiped out, too.

It’s nothing new. At various times over the years, Cas has sent viruses to Sam’s computers, shredded his work files, trashed his studio, dumped dog crap into his oolong. At least Sam assumed it was from a dog; there’s no telling with Castiel.

This time, Sam changed all of his PINs the moment the door closed behind him. The next day, there was still a charge to one of his credit cards from a Holiday Inn. Sam had checked, and sure enough, that card was gone.

Cas hasn't held a job in years. Sam could give him a while to get settled. He set a limit of a few grand and checked back each evening to get an idea of how Cas was faring. Castiel had enjoyed a few expensive meals. He spent over $1000 at some apparel shop. Sam had sighed and adjusted the allowance slightly higher. It was a matter of a few button clicks, and money isn't an issue.

For it to have come to this, Cas would have had to call the bank, impersonated Sam and said he'd forgotten the new access info. But again, it was nothing he would put past Castiel.

By the time Sam walks out of the bank all he wants to do is drive home, crawl into bed, pull the covers over his head and cry himself to death.

Instead, he goes to work.

 

***

 

An overcooked green been smacks wet against Dean’s cheek, plops onto his shoulder and lands on the floor. Most everybody at the table laughs. He wipes the remaining foul-smelling moisture from his skin and looks at his hand.

By the time Ash is collecting himself from the cafeteria floor, Dean has shoved his way through the double doors. The air doesn’t cool him down. Neither do the deep gulps he’s taking of it.

Hitting Ash was the dumbest thing he’s done in a long time. Getting the hell out of there before he murdered that asshole is probably the smartest.

Coach is going to have Dean’s ass for this. Maybe he’ll even be kicked off the team. Right now, he doesn’t give much of a fuck.

 

***

 

Sam sits at his desk with his head in his hands. His body shakes, out of control. He hasn’t thought about jumping off the building a single time since he met Dean.

Mrs. Mosely is a remarkably poor whisperer. “Is he crying?”

To his left, another co-worker answers, “I don’t know.”

“Sam. Honey. You all right?” The older woman rolls her chair right beside him and places a warm hand on his shoulder.

Sam isn’t crying. He is losing his mind.

 

***

As the Gators run off the field, shouting, Dean stands blank-faced in the end zone, watching his teammates holler and carry on. Coach Winchester saunters over and claps him on the shoulder. His body lurches from the contact.

So Ash can keep his mouth shut. That asswipe just pretended it never happened. Dean ought to be grateful and fired up about the win. But he's hollow, which is better than it could be.

It’s always been this way. The shittier he feels, the crappier things are at home, the more highly guaranteed he is to win. It’s like his brain goes on auto-pilot and he plays like a robot.

The problem is, when the game’s over, he’s right back where he started.

On the bright side, if Sam never talks to him again, Gators are going all the way to State.

 

***

 

In the dim light of the parking garage, Sam furrows his brow. He leans over to examine the bold, ugly scratches on the door of his car that spell out the word: FAG

He tries to wipe it off with his sleeve, scrape it away with his thumbnail. It’s a lost cause.

“You changed the locks.”

Sam grabs his chest. “Jesus, Cas.”

“Did I scare you?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam watches Castiel’s hand trail down his shoulder.

“Miss you. So much. Wanted to surprise you, but you changed the locks.” He smiles. “Did you have a break in or something?”

Cas’ hand is on Sam’s face now. The other one tugs his shirt from his pants. “Why didn't you come look for me? You always look for me. Then you find me and we go home. Why didn’t you do that?”

Castiel’s hands are around Sam’s neck, drawing him down. The door clicks open and voices flood the garage. A small swell of panic grips Sam. So far as he knows, Castiel has never hurt anyone but him, but Sam wouldn’t put anything past him.

Castiel slaps Sam’s face, just enough to get his attention. "I'm right here. Why would you change the fucking locks, Sam?" He still hangs off Sam's neck like a noose.

Sam glances over at Mrs. Mosley as she walks to her car with Dick Roman from HR. They’ve both stopped to watch.

“Castiel.” Sam tries to peel his arms away.

“What?”

Sam looks at his co-workers, at his car door and down into Castiel’s eyes, oddly, storm-grey in this light.

Cas looks at Sam’s car over his shoulder and grins. “Oh, yeah. Isn’t that horrible? I know you don't like people to know" - he whispers behind his hand - " _that_ about you. That's why you always keep me hidden. But I don't mind. I love you anyway, Sammy. I always loved you and I'm always going to love you. No matter how much you hate yourself.”

Castiel tries to hug him, but Sam holds him at arm’s distance.

Mrs. Mosley hits Dick Roman’s arm. He rolls his eyes but then asks Sam with a look whether he's okay. Sam replies with a nod and a tight-lipped smile as he waves them off.

They leave, but not before Mrs. Mosley tosses one more concerned glance over her shoulder

All the while Castiel murmurs into Sam’s shirt, “I didn't mean to stay gone so long, Sammy. I just ... needed to clear my head, you know. My poor baby. You must be so lonely. I know how lonely you get, even with everybody around. How you get so sad and pitiful.” Castiel strokes Sam’s face. “I don't want you to be sad anymore, Sammy. I want to come home and take care of you.”

Sam snakes away again.

Castiel stands on his tiptoes with Sam's face in his hands. His eyes darken, voice lowers an octave. “Fuck me, Sam. I want you to fuck me right here.”

He spreads himself out over the hood of Sam's car.

“Castiel, please.”

“Come on, Sammy. Nobody's going to see you. Nobody's ever going to find out about you. I didn't tell them before, did I? No. And I'm not going to tell them now. I just need you to fuck me. I need it. I need your cock in me so bad.”

Castiel hikes his black leather mini-skirt up around his stomach and shoves two fingers into his anus.

The door opens again. Sam grabs Castiel by his blouse and drags him to the back of the car, pulling the skirt back down. Cas yells, “Don’t touch me like that.”

“Hey, everything okay over there?” It’s a male voice Sam doesn’t recognize.

He stands between Castiel and the man, trying to shield them from each other’s view.

Cas shoves Sam and says, "This man..."

In a last-ditch effort to keep his insane private life private, Sam mashes his lips to Castiel’s. The guy apologizes and Sam’s pulse lowers a notch as the footsteps recede.

Cas leaps. Years of muscle memory make Sam catch him. He sits the much smaller man on the back of the car. Castiel laughs and starts to open Sam’s belt, ankles locking him in place.

“No.”

“You can't tell me no.”

“Castiel, it's over.”

“No, it's not.”

Sam holds his wrists. “It is.”

Cas shakes his head, lips taut.

“You and me. We're done.” Sam’s voice is calm, but his heart beats out of control. His throat is tight, mouth dry like he’s been gargling sand. He steps back from between Castiel’s legs and fixes his hair. “You need to... you need to get some help.”

Castiel snickers. “You can't do that.”

Sam nods, takes a deep breath and leaves him there, stunned. He sits in the driver’s seat and stares ahead with hands on the wheel. He should have done this five years ago, but it's better now than never.

The moment of silence is shattered by a horrible scraping and pounding overhead as Castiel scrambles over the roof onto the windshield. He slides down and beats the glass with his fists. He takes off a high-heeled shoe, bangs with it and yells. Not words. Just an awful shrieking that reverberates off the concrete, echoing like demons shouting back from the depths of Hell. He stops for a moment, apparently enjoying the sound. Then he calls out in a feminine voice, “HELP! RAPE!”

Castiel stops the moment Sam gets out of the car. He glares at the open passenger side door, slides off the hood and adjusts his skirt with his chin in the air. He holds his hand out, wrist delicately arched.

Sam shakes his head, but escorts him to the seat, slams the door shut, gets behind the wheel and drives off. “Where do you want me to take you?”

“Home. Silly.” Castiel giggles and pulls at Sam’s face.

Left hand on the wheel, Sam holds him off. “Are you still at the Holiday Inn on Radford?”

Castiel’s face falls. “You knew and you didn't come for me?”

“I told you…”

Cas turns his knees forward and lets his chin drop to his chest. “The card ran out. I kept expecting you to come. Kept waiting for you. I have to blow the stupid manager every day I want to stay. He's this big, fat, nasty guy who probably can't even see his own ugly, little cock. If he could he wouldn't show it to anyone.”

“You need to go somewhere else then.”

“I don't have any money, Sam. I don't have anything but that stupid dog. I don't have anything. All I have is you. And all you have is me. That's why we're so good together.”

Sam swats Castiel’s reaching hands.

“I miss you, Sammy. I miss your beautiful cock and your beautiful smile and your gigantic hands on me and your goofy hair all over the place.” Castiel makes a sounds halfway between a sob and a laugh. “I only left because I... I wanted you to miss me, too.”

When they arrive at the hotel, Sam offers Castiel his cash: three twenty dollar bills. “It's all I have.”

Cas eyes his wallet. “It's not all you have.”

Sam looks through, sighs and pulls out another card. “Castiel, look at me. I need you to understand that this is it. I can’t do this with you anymore. No more money. No more contact. Tell me you understand that.”

Castiel frowns at the card in his hand. "You're going to be sorry.”

“Cas.”

Castiel wipes away his tears with his palm “You’re gonna be so fucking lonely without me. You're never going to find anybody else because you're too afraid for anyone to know what you are. And I hope you rot. Alone. In hell, you fucking pathetic closet case."

He stumbles out and doesn’t bother to close the door before he stumbles away on one broken shoe.

 

***

 

Dean gnaws at his cuticle. He bites his lip bloody and forbids himself to do what every cell in his body is dying to do. He is not going to cry. If there’s one place he could get away with it, it’s here, but he hasn’t yet and he isn’t going to do it now. Dean will cannonball off a bridge before he lets himself cry. He clamps down on it - muscles tense, lungs burning from his refusal to breathe.

He nods in gratitude for the tea that Mildred sets in front of him. He sighs, breath mingling with the steam.

Mildred taps his back. “You know, if it’s as bad as all that, JoAnna Winchester is carrying a big, bright torch for you. She’s a really sweet girl.”

“I know.” He digs at one eye with the heel of his hand, suddenly so exhausted.

“I understand. The heart wants what it wants.” Mildred sits down in the chair across from him. “Well, what exactly is the problem? I thought this girl likes you, too.”

“I think … she does." Dean’s voice quivers. "It’s just … a matter of timing, I guess.”

“Meaning?” Mildred takes a slog of her tea.

“Meaning, I am, apparently, too young for - her.” He sniffles, just once, like a complete loser.

“Oh, child. Do you know I was your age when I married my first husband? If I had it to do over, I wouldn’t get married at all.”

“I don’t want to marry him, for fuck’s sake. I just … It’s not fair.”

Mildred doesn’t bat an eye at the pronoun. “No. I suppose it’s not. What can you do about it?”

Dean has been so caught up in feeling helpless and acting normal around everyone else, that he hadn’t thought of it that way. “Come back here in two years and hope he still wants me. Or fucking get over it.” He nods, resolved. “I’ll just get over it.”

Mildred nods, too

Dean has a sip of his tea. It’s peppermint but kicks his throat a little more than an herb in water should do. “Did you spike this?”

She shrugs and hides an impish grin behind her mug as she has another drink.

 

***

 

Fork in his right hand, phone in his left, Sam eats steak while he surveys meat. No one seems to post anything other than dick pics and abs. Shaking his head, he deletes the app and puts down his cell.

A hostess guides a family with two kids. One of them is a boy - maybe 13, with a round face covered in acne. Sam holds his breath and turns his entire body away from them as if they have the plague. Or as if Sam does and knows himself to be contagious.

He should have known. Maybe he had. Most kids are out of school by 18. Sam had Dean pegged for 17, which is, technically, still illegal. But it’s not 16. And what’s the difference, really, between 16 and 15?

What if he were 14? Would Sam still have been attracted to him? Attraction is physical. You can’t control what your body wants. You can control what your body does and that’s what Sam is doing - staying the hell away.

What about the mind? Can you control who you fall for?

Fall for _  
_

_Christ._

_What kind of sicko falls for a 16 year old?  
_

He wonders, not for the first time since last night, about the men on sex offenders lists. Are they allowed to eat and shop and go anywhere? Or do they have some sort of ID that keeps them out of respectable establishments like this one?

Sam should probably leave.

The family is seated at the table right in front of him, with the children facing in his direction. The worst part? Sam is wearing a sport jacket, just like that creep who had followed Dean. He raises his hand for his check.

 

***

 

Dean nurses his beer and rolls his eyes as the bottle spins. It’s a kiddie game, but he has nowhere better to be. He’s still not sure why he agreed to come to this thing. Having six people over on a Thursday night just because your parents aren’t home does not a party make.

The neck of the bottle lands on this dark-haired kid named Bradley. Carter, whose house it is, sticks out his tongue and acts like he’s going to throw up. Everybody laughs, including Dean (although he doesn’t see what’s so fucking funny).

Bradley sits there like he’s been turned to stone. Carter makes this big speech about how it’s his house, and he should get a free spin.

They’re both decent looking. Dean would fuck either one of them.

 

***

 

Sam’s never been anywhere like this without Cas. Technically, it’s not a sex club. It’s just a bar, but still.

Once his wide eyes adjust to the lighting, they wander over all the leather, the many many full beards and the chains. Glass surfaces, and all the mirrors. And himself. He fixes the collar on the black leather jacket he never wears for a reason. He looks like he's auditioning to play the Fonz.

His pants are too tight. What the hell was he thinking? He can totally see the outline of his shaft. And if he can see it… Sam shakes his head at his reflection and turns on his heels to get out of here before he makes an even bigger ass of himself.

A man is right in front of him, which means this man was right behind him only a second ago.

“Hey.” He scans Sam’s body, eyes widening at the bulge.

He’s nice looking, dark skinned. In his button-down shirt and jeans, he’s dressed like a normal person, not a cowboy from Hell. He’s half a foot shorter, but Sam’s used to that. The guy smiles and offers his hand, also like a normal person. “Gordon.”

Gordon guesses, correctly, that Sam has never been here and offers to introduce him to a few people. He buys Sam a drink. Before it even arrives, his hand is on Sam’s thigh - way high on Sam’s thigh as he laughs at his own jokes.

He’s a dentist, if Sam heard him right. Seems like a nice enough guy and exactly what Sam was looking for: someone who looks, sounds, smells and acts nothing like Dean.

 

***

 

It takes Carter and Bradley about ten minutes of evasion to get it over with. Even then, it’s just a quick peck. They both back away, wiping off their tongues with their sleeves and groaning like they had just eaten a pile of dog shit.

_Morons._

It’s lips. There’s no difference - unless the guy is older and he hasn’t shaved in a day, and he wears this really great cologne.

Dean sighs.

This hot blonde, Niki, has been leaning up against him all night. She spins, and it lands on Carter, but she nudges it over to Dean. Carter has been watching her all night and it sucks when the person you want doesn't want you - for any reason. Dean feels a little bad for him. Not a lot, though.

Dean works on his beer and lets them hash it out. It’s decided that because she has already kissed Carter and not Dean, that it’s Dean’s turn.

He couldn’t care less, sits down his bottle and makes space for the girl to kneel in his lap. Her skirt rides up and Dean puts his hands on her waist. She rests her arms on his shoulders. His dick is into it, but part of him wants to knock her ass on the floor.

It’s a messed up thing to think, and he doesn’t do it. He gives her a cocky smile and whispers, “How you doing, sweetheart?”

She melts against him like butter: warm and soft and wrong wrong wrong

Girls are easy.

Guys are even easier, to be honest. With guys, it's all below the belt. You can pretty much grab a guy's cock and he won't complain.

Chicks, it's all above the shoulders. Girls want nuance. They want to be talked to a certain way, looked at just right. Kissed all soft and sweet, at least at first.

Then you fuck. Then it’s over.

That's how Dean plays it. Every time. Up until now.

He’s never had somebody stuck on his brain and under his skin like it is with Sam. It makes him want to scream. Instead, he leans in, kisses this girl dizzy and tries not to think of anything else.

_Why didn’t I just kiss him? What kind of idiot passes up a chance like that?_

He can’t even pretend this girl is Sam; her body is 50 different kinds of wrong.

He does it anyway - kisses her like it’s Sam. ‘Cause Sam ain’t here and Niki is. Sam is probably never going to talk to Dean’s sorry ass again. The fuck if he’s going to be celibate the rest of his life.

She hums in his mouth, grips his shirt. Dean pulls back to take a look at his handiwork. Her eyes are still closed and she’s just kind of swaying on his lap, mouth slightly parted. Her eyes flutter open, and she leans in for another go. Carter honks like a buzzer from a game show. “One kiss.”

Niki flips him off, stands up and leads Dean by the hand, like a lamb to the shitter.

 

***

 

The bass is so loud, Sam can feel it in his teeth. The walls vibrate. The whole place stinks of sweat, semen, and unwashed ass. There are probably other odors in this stall that Sam, in his limited experience, can’t even identify.

He turns his face aside as a slimy mouth clamps onto his neck and slurps like a leech. Sam’s nose turns up in spite of his earnest desire to enjoy this. He has never just hooked up in his life. It’s about time, right? One night stands are supposed to be great stress relief, right?

_Just go with it. Stop thinking and go with it.  
_

***

 

Niki acts like she’s starving. She latches onto Dean’s neck and moans greedy. Her fingers creep up his shirt, and as much as he wants to bat them away, he lets her.

When she comes up for air, he grins, because that’s what the hell he’s supposed to do. His dick is into it, because he’s alive and some girl is clawing at his zipper. She gets her hand down his pants and, yeah, it’s good. He closes his eyes and lets her. She’s clearly done this before and obviously never to herself. It’s a valiant attempt, though and he doesn’t say anything. Most girls get thrown off when you give them instructions.

Dean’s eyes open again when she lets him go. She leans her feather-weight with one hand on his shoulder while she pluck hers underwear from her ankles.

“Crap. I don’t have a condom?” It’s a lie. Dean is always, always prepared.

“I’ve got one in my purse. Hold these.” She hands Dean her panties and starts for the door.

He catches her arm and pulls her back into a kiss. He gets his fingers between her legs and, man, she is dripping, from that little bit of kissing. His dick responds to the moisture and forces the words, “Damn, girl,” out of his mouth.

But some other part of him is in panic mode. His heart is beating all fast, not in a good way. As if he doesn’t know exactly where this is going. Or as if he doesn’t like it, when usually he loves it.

Niki juice is running all down his fingers like he’s been rolling and squeezing her for days. He flicks his thumb over her clit and she makes a sound he usually loves. It makes him kind of sick this time. Her body rolls, she leans her forehead against his shoulder.

 

***

 

Sam squeezes his eyes shut and lets the guy’s fingers spider down his chest. The stranger - Greg? - fumbles over Sam’s crotch. “Damn, you’re hung. I can’t wait to get that inside me.”

Greg tastes like an ashtray. Sam pulls away and winds up with a tongue jammed into his ear. He shudders and cleans it with his finger. “Listen, I’m … I’m sorry. I just … This isn’t me.”

He stumbles out of the bathroom stall and leaves Greg - or whatever his name is - with his mouth and pants hanging open.

 

***

 

This is what Dean needs. This girl, right now, to wipe Sam away. Something else on his mind, in his arms. He sticks his fingers in his mouth. Niki tastes like ham. She whimpers, “God, I want you to do it.”

“Yeah?” Her tits are a little less than a handful, but that’s all right.

“Yeah.” She leans against him, small and sweet. The anti-Sam. “But I don’t without …”

“Smart girl.” He pretends to frown.

Niki reaches for his dick again. Dean ignores her vice grip and her clumsy confidence. He squeezes his eyes shut. When he comes, it's to a crystal clear image of Sam on his knees - hazel eyes staring up into his.

The girl smiles over her shoulder at him while she washes her hands. “See you out there.”

Dean nods and leans back like he's holding up the wall. He grins until the bathroom door closes behind her.

 

***

 

Sam sits in his car, trying his best not to hyperventilate. He huffs out a breath when his phone alerts him to a new text.

DS: What ever happened to friends?

Sam shakes his head and whimpers. “Please.”

 

***

 

Perched on the toilet with his pants still open, Dean looks down at his phone. “Come on, Sam.”

He drops his head in his hand, grinds the heel of his palm in circles, as if he could wipe away the want.

 

***

 

At the final whistle, the Gator’s crowd roars along with the team. Dean laughs and lets his teammates hoist him onto their shoulders. A couple of guys douse Garth with what’s left of the ice water in the cooler. Then, they all file into the locker room. A cute, bookish girl with thick-ass glasses, a pad, and a pencil approaches Dean. “Do you have anything you want to say about the game?”

Coach Winchester steps between them and puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “You know they don’t print your name, son. It’ll just say ‘the Gator’s quarterback.’”

Dean clears his throat. “Well, um, we got off to a rocky start, and they were pretty tough. But we just got in there and did what had to be done.”

It isn't poetry, but that’s the game, in a nutshell. The coach claps his back and Dean runs off to catch the rest of the squad. Jo bounces down from the bandstand and waves her flute. She still has on that crazy band hat with the green and black mohawk. He smiles and waves back.

By the time Dean is dressed, showered and out of the locker room, Jo has changed out of her uniform. She’s as cute as ever, waiting for him by the front pillars near the main entrance. Her  sugar-sweet perfume, the curl of her ponytail hangs over her shoulder like an invitation.

Maybe Dean’s finally getting over the Sam thing because he’s weightless and immortal tonight. He reaches out and tugs on her hair.

Jo’s flower-pink chapstick glistens in the artificial light of the parking lot street lamps. It would be so easy and taste so good. She would open up to him like she did before. No one would have any problem with it. Everyone would think it was great. He could close his eyes and pretend she’s whoever he wants. It would be so easy.

But she’s Jo. That’s good in a different way and he’s done leading her on. “Hey.”

She smiles so cute, it’s a shame. “Hey. You coming to Ash’s party?”

Dean opens his mouth to say ‘sure’ when his phone buzzes.

“I guess you have to get that.” Jo faces away with her arms folded.

“Let me just see who it is.”

SW: That was fucking amazing

SW: Never seen a kid handle the ball like that

Dean’s heart flips in his chest. He searches the entire parking lot but doesn’t see Sam or his Prius anywhere. It’s getting dark, but most of the cars are gone. If he’s close, Dean should be able to see him. He texts back:

DS: R U still here?

Jo gives Dean’s back a gentle nudge. “Who are you always texting?”

“Nobody. Just give me a second.” He hunches his shoulders a little to hide his screen.

SW: Looking right at you. Who's that?

DS: You don't recognize your own sister?

SW: Jo? Don’t see her often.

SW: You guys friends?

DS: Where the fuck R U?!

SW: See if you can find me?

Dean struggles to keep his grin and his groin under control. He turns to Jo. “Why don’t you go ahead? I’ll catch up.”

“You have a ride?” Her eyes wander around the campus, trying to figure out what Dean is looking for.

He’s already running when he yells back, “Yeah. I’ll see you.”

 

***

 

Jo watches him all the way across the parking lot. Dean doesn’t notice because he never turns back around to see her turn and go back into the school.

Dean runs to the woods behind the field where Sam is leaning against a tree with one knee bent in what is supposed to be a tribute to 1980s John Cusack, but probably looks ridiculous.

Dean ducks beneath a branch and sweeps his eyes over the length of Sam. He wets his lips. “So, this mean we’re good?”

Sam lets the warmth of Dean’s gaze wash down his body. The kid steps in front of him and brushes hot hands over Sam’s shoulders.

“Dean. I’m not really a good person.” Sam’s inability to stay away from him is another proof of that. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Dean smirks as his palms rove down Sam’s chest. “You can’t hurt me, Sammy.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What? Sammy?”

“Yeah. Don’t.” Sam stares at the ground to keep his depraved eyes off this ravishing child. “It would never be intentional, but I hurt everyone.”

“I think I can handle it.” Dean’s hand shifts to Sam’s belt.

Sam catches his wrist. “Look, there’s no law against us being friends.”

Dean leans near enough for their chests to touch. He stands on his toes and breathes, warm and moist into Sam’s ear. “Would you stop with that? I don't want to be your friend, Sam.”

“That hurts my feelings.” Sam clutches Dean’s narrow waist - tries to hold him away.

Dean snaps his hips forward, forces Sam to feel his arousal. “You know exactly what I mean.”

Sam groans and crushes Dean close for a second. Then pushes him back and takes a deep breath. He adjusts himself through the straining fabric of his pants and looks over Dean’s shoulder at movement among the trees.

Dean glances back in the direction of Sam’s gaze. “Hey, buddy,” he says slow and easy, turning around.

A lanky, goofy looking kid stands there like a slack-jawed statue. “I didn’t see anything.”

“You sure?” Dean approaches him.

The other boy’s eyes flick to Sam who scratches the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact.

“Nothing. It was dark and… Is that Coach’s kid?”

Sam’s heart clenches.

Dean takes the boy’s face between his hands and gently smacks his cheek. “It’s no one. Because you didn’t see anything.”

“Yeah.” The skinny boy nods with his eyes fixed on Dean’s.

An irrational pang of jealousy courses through Sam. He tamps it down. _This guy isn’t Dean’s type, is he?’_

Then again, Sam had been all limbs and knobby joints like that in middle school. The boy’s peculiar face is still contorted in shock. Dean’s hands are on his neck.

_Friends. They’re friends. He can touch who he wants._ Sam diverts his eyes. He has no right to despise the tender way Dean handles this kid.

“Good boy, Garth. Now, run along,” Dean tells him, and the other kid scurries like his tail is on fire.

“You’re sure he’s not going to say anything?”

“What would you suggest I do? Kill him?” Dean watches Garth across the field.

“No. Obviously. I don’t know … You could pay him?”

Dean turns his head at the suggestion. “Seriously? That what you did?”

“No one ever knew about me.” The one time he thought a teacher suspected, Sam had become even more closely acquainted with his father’s handguns.

“Is that what you would have done?”

Sam reaches up and snaps a twig from a branch above his head. “I don’t know what I would have done. I just know that if you’re not ready to come out …”

Dean snatches the stick from Sam’s hand and tosses it to the ground. “There’s no … there’s no coming out to be done. I’m having a conversation with a friend here. We’re friends, right? You and me.”

“Yeah.” Sam’s smile is strained and false. “I guess there won’t be a problem, then.”

“No. It won’t.” Dean turns back to the field.

The skinny kid has vanished. Sam bites his lip, balls his hands into fists, presses his own back into the tree and wishes there was a chain to bind him there. Something to keep him from touching Dean the way he wants to, so badly.

“So, what are you going to do now?” Dean tosses the question over his shoulder.

“Go home, I guess.” Sam barely hears his own voice.  
Dean nods. “Can I come? Just to hang out.”


	16. Chapter 16

Dean lays like a seal, flat on his stomach with his head next to Sam’s crossed ankles. His legs are bent at the knees, feet hovering in the air behind him. He shovels Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey into his grinning face. Banana, cream and fudge swirling on his tongue before it all slides cold down his throat.

He trails the end of his spoon down the center of Sam’s bare sole and smiles when Bigfoot wiggles his toes.

A glob of ice cream spills out of Dean’s mouth when he laughs at Ricky Bobby saying he wants to go fast. Happens every time. He checks Sam’s reaction over his shoulder. Sam isn't laughing at all. He’s half-smiling, watching Dean as if he’s on the screen.

Dean rolls onto his side. “You don’t like it?”

“I’m enjoying it. I am.”

Dean lifts the hem of Sam’s shirt.

“Dean, what part of -”

“Sam, shut up.” He drops a dollop into Sam’s navel and grins at the sharp hiss and wriggle it produces from his giant plaything.

He sucks out the ice cream and licks up the residue. The way Sam's muscles roll and contract under his tongue is even better than all the sweet. Dean’s starting to get hard just from that.

“This is what you do with your friends?”

“Yup. Every last one of ‘em.” Dean lifts up to his knees and scoops up more ice cream. He crawls up the bed and holds it to Sam’s pursed lips. “Come on. Try some.”

Sam shakes his head and frowns like a toddler being offered Brussels sprouts. “I told you. Sugar. And milk. They don’t agree with me.”

“What does that even mean? Who doesn’t like ice cream, Sam? Just try it.”

Sam squirrels away from the spoon. “I don’t like it. Never have. I only got it because I thought you would.”

Dean straddles his chest. Sam’s humongous hands wrap around Dean’s hips as he tries to keep him from coming any closer. He leans to the side as Dean bobs and weaves every which way to make sure he’s blocking Sam’s view. In retaliation, Sam comes for Dean’s ribs.

“No no no no no no. Forget it. Never mind.” Dean drops the spoon on the bed so that he can clamp his arms shut in self-defense.

He curls up like a hedgehog, trying to hide every tender part of him from Sam’s relentless fingers. Sam burrows his face in Dean’s neck, growling low in his throat. That tickles worse than everything else he’s doing.

“Fuck. Okay." Dean writhes and tries to escape. "Okay! You win!”

Sam raises his arms in triumph and Dean shudders and rolls away. Catching his breath, he picks up the sticky spoon. “Look what you made me do.”

“It’s okay. I can change the sheets.” Sam tips it into the ice cream container and puts them both on his bedside table.

“Come on. Try it.” Dean breathes out and leans close enough for Sam to smell the awesomeness on his tongue.

Sam turns up his nose. “It’s all melted.”

Dean rubs his dick back and forth over Sam’s thigh. He grabs the spoon and holds it to Sam’s mouth. “Doesn’t matter. It’s still fucking delicious. Just eat it.”

The pink tip of Sam's thick tongue sticks out for a tiny taste. He grimaces when he’s fed.

Dean smacks his chest. “It’s good, and you know it.”

“It’s okay.” Sam admits around the silverware.

“Here, have some more. Open up, Sammy.”

“Don’t call me that, Dean.” Sam turns his head away from the flying spoon airplane. “No. That’s enough.”

Dean grips his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Just eat it, Sam. Stop being a freak.”

Sam sighs and lets Dean feed him every last drop of the remaining liquid ice cream.

“Good, wasn’t it?”

Sam nods, licking the residue from his lips.

“Told you.” Dean sets the empty container aside and wipes Sam’s mouth with his thumb. “Now, if you’re going to change the sheets anyway...”

“Dean.”

“I’m just saying.” Dean stares at Sam’s lips and licks his own.

“I thought we agreed.”

“Yeah, I know. We agreed. Would you be a _friend_ and help me with this?” Dean scrambles to his knees and tilts his hips up toward Sam’s face. “Please, Sam? Just … Would you just touch me? Please?”

Sam stares a hole in the wall as he rubs Dean over his jeans. Dean moans and sways into the touch. His hands flit over Sam’s shoulders. He bows until their foreheads meet and he can breathe in Sam’s cologne. “God, I want you.”

Sam shakes his head.

Dean pours every ounce of his frustration and need into one word: “Sam.”

Sam sighs long and hard before he opens Dean’s fly and frees him. His hand fists loosely around Dean's length as he strokes in steady, even pulls. His thumb slips over Dean's slit to gather up the juice and slick his dick. Dean droops over Sam's face, whimpering.

Nice. That’s what it is. Nice.

Dean has never - would never - touch himself this way. He is quick and to the point with his self-loving. This is merciless. It’s so good, he might die from it.

After a few agonizing minutes, Sam is still jacking him so slow it’s brutal. Dean squeezes his eyes shut and clutches the back of Sam’s neck. His breath hitches. “Fuck you, Sam. Bring me off.”

“Patience.” Sam presses a palm into the small of Dean’s back and keeps at his leisurely pace.

That centering, grounding hand is the last straw. Dean can’t take it anymore. His hips drive themselves into Sam’s fist. He gropes and grasps at the man’s shirt, grinding and whining like some little kid who’s never been touched in his life.

Sam wraps an arm around his waist. “Shh. It’s okay. It’s okay, baby. I got you.”

Nobody calls Dean fucking Baby. For some reason, his muscles seize up at the word. Just as he’s about to sail over the cliff, Sam tightens his fingers around the base of his shaft.

“Fuck. Fuck. What the fuck? What are you doing to me?” Dean lurches forward and whimpers at the tension built up so thick, he'll fucking explode, if Sam would only let him.

“It’s okay. Trust me.”

Dean tries to claw Sam’s hand away, beats his fists against Sam’s chest. “Let me come. Let me come, Sam.”

“I will. I promise. Just trust me. Okay?” That hand, the one on his back, is so warm and gentle, stroking him like a troubled horse.

Dean whimpers again and nods. Sam, again, with the slow slide of his hand. Pre-come dribbles over his fingers. Dean’s mouth falls open, thighs tremble against Sam’s sides. Sam’s other hand drops from his back to caress up and down his thigh. He stares up at Dean, hazel eyes gone dark. Dean slips his fingers into Sam’s hair, intending to hold him in place and make him end this. Sam’s grip tightens around the base of Dean’s dick again. “You ready, baby?”

Dean pants, shaking his muddled head. “You fucker.”

When his poor, tortured dick stops throbbing, Sam hands it over and slides down the mattress to lay flat on his back. “Come in my mouth.”

Dean jacks himself the right way: hard and fast, breathing like a racehorse. Usually, Dean would describe orgasm like being shoved off a cliff - in a good way. What’s happening to him now is more like being swept up in a tornado - gut clenched, breathless, helpless, shuddering, resistance fucking futile.

Tears pool in the corners of his eyes. The word ‘pleasure’ doesn’t cut it. There isn’t a word for it. It’s so good he doesn’t even know what language he’s speaking. Senseless sounds tumble from him as rope after rope of come spills onto Sam’s face and between his open lips.

Smiling, Sam wipes it out of his eye, off his cheeks and licks it from his fingers.

“Holy fuck.” Dean shudders, still winding down.

Since the guy seems to be starving for it, Dean uses the tip of his dick to clean Sam’s chin and feed him more. Dean quivers and draws in a quick breath, like some kind of virgin. Sam chuckles. “You good?”

“You are one filthy bastard.”

“You’re delicious. What can I say?”

Dean drops his spent body onto the bed and covers his eyes with his arms for a moment. “Fuck. Is that how you do it?”

“Sometimes.” Sam rolls onto his side and wipes the sweat from Dean’s brow.

“Shit.” What else has he missed out not having a guy around while he was growing up? He reaches over and massages Sam’s massive wood. “I'll be right with you?”

“No, thank you.”

“Come on.” Dean flicks open Sam’s button.

“No, seriously. I’m fine for now.” Sam lifts Dean’s hand and plants a kiss on his knuckles.

Dean’s sigh turns into a gaping yawn. That wins a laugh from Sam, which gives Dean a weird warm sensation he’s not really familiar with. He’s isn’t going to fight to have a dick in his mouth as tired as he is. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

Dean falls asleep to the drone of engines and conversations he knows by heart. A content smile spreads on his face as he slips under.

Before his eyes open again, he knows by the scene that only a few minutes have passed

When he wakes, Sam is staring at him.

“Yeah. That’s not creepy at all.” He smacks his lips, ice cream sweet gone a little sour.

Sam smiles and kneads his thigh. Dean is slender, but he’s not skinny. Sam’s hand wraps nearly halfway around and digs into the flesh just beneath his ball sack. “Shit.”

Dean tries to adjust himself, but it’s too late.

“Again?”

All Dean can do is shrug an apology for his overactive body.

“Do you have any condoms with you?” Sam’s voice is hardly more than a breath.

“Of course. What do you … ”

Sam nods toward the living room where Dean abandoned his backpack when they arrived. “Go get them.”

Dignity flies out of the window. Instantly forgetting his own exhaustion, Dean dives from the bed, tripping over his sagging jeans. Laugh, Sam, laugh. But he who laughs lasts ... or something. Who cares?

*******

 

Sam is undressed by the time his young lover returns. The boy’s bare body is sun-kissed and lightly freckled. Sam drinks him in all the way to his toes. A small packet hangs from between pearl-white teeth. Dean strokes himself and kneels on the edge of the bed. Sam smiles up at this Adonis, beauty on the verge of breaking his heart. “God. Look at you.”

Dean looks down at his own flawless body and rubs the hand not on his cock across his smooth chest. There is a semi-circular raised scar on Dean’s chest, just below his clavicle. Sam had seen it before, when they went into Doggett’s Creek, but he’d been somewhat preoccupied with dunking Dean and having his brain sucked out through his cock and hadn’t gotten around to asking then.

If he didn’t know better, he would say it’s an Islamic crescent. Besides the fact that there’s no star, it doesn’t fit what he knows of Dean.

Intriguing though it is, Sam is more entranced by the way the kid tweaks an already stiff, pink nipple and spits the unopened condom onto the bed. “You want me to…”

Sam nods. “If you want to.”

”You know, I’m clean. I mean, if you wanted … I got tested as part of the physical to join the team, and I haven’t done anything unprotected since then, so … you know.”

Sam shuts his eyes and shakes his head. He doesn’t even want to think about what Dean is offering, because he knows he can’t accept. He wraps a palm around his own weeping cock. “I haven’t been tested in a while.”

“But you’ve only been with the one guy, right?” Dean probably doesn’t realize that he’s whining or know how adorable it is.

“Yes. Only he wasn’t exactly, always, all that faithful.” Sam turns his eyes to the TV.

“Oh. Okay.”

Not for the first time, Sam wishes he could strangle Castiel. “I wanted to … get tested. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I will. Just … we should be careful for now?”

Dean licks his lips and nods eagerly. “Yeah, okay. That’s cool. So, how do you want to do this?”

Sam chuckles and flips onto his stomach.

“Are you serious? That’s what you want?”

Sam buries his face in the mattress and nods. “If it’s okay with you.”

“Shit, yeah.”

There’s not any way for Sam to convey how much he wants this that doesn’t involve singing telegram and fireworks, so he just lays still with his cheek resting on his forearm.

As Dean’s palms rove over the scars on the backs of his thighs, Sam tenses and waits for the inevitable litany of questions about them. It doesn’t come. Dean rolls on the condom, hops up and immediately lodges the tip of his cock between Sam’s cheeks.

“Whoa, whoa, kid.” Sam clenches his ass and props up onto his elbows.

He is loathe to think that anyone had ever taken Dean that way. Sam hands Dean the lube.

“Sorry.”

Sam blows out a breath and eases back down at the sound of the liquid squelching. “Just kind of … open me up a little.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“And don’t be in such a rush. I’m not going anywhere.” That is a promise.

Dean palms both globes of Sam’s ass. He kneads and gives him a sharp smack. Sam sucks in a quick breath. That’s more like it. He draws one cheek aside and Sam gasps as it slides over his entrance.

“That okay?”

Sam nods. It’s cold but fine.

A fingertip drags over him. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam sees Dean watching his face for any further protest.

The kid presses the pad of a finger against Sam’s opening. When there is no complaint, the cute, little tip of Dean’s tongue peeks out between his lips in concentration. He applies a bit more pressure until the finger is swallowed to the first knuckle. It burns a bit at first, but no worse than when Sam prods himself.

“You good?”

“You can go for two, if you want.”

“Who’s impatient now?”

Sam chuckles. Dean works him open until he’s rocking back onto three fingers. Loving the lust blossoming on Dean’s face as much as the pressure in his ass, Sam’s entire body thrums.

Dean sucks in a breath. “Dude, if I don’t do this now, I don’t know if I’m gonna make it.”

“All right. Just take it easy.”

Dean bites his lower lip as he aligns himself, supports his weight with one hand and uses the other to hold his cock in place as the tip urges past the reluctant ring of muscle. “Oh, fuck.”

Sam sinks his teeth into his own arm and tries not to sound how it feels. The pressure is so intense; the slow drag burns. Sam's toes curl. His body tenses despite repeating to himself, _'relax, relax, relax'_

As Dean presses into him, the burning becomes pain. Now he knows, that was not nearly enough prep.

“You okay?”“Yeah. That’s not creepy at all.”

Sam hums his consent, but his jaws remain clenched.

“You’re so fucking tight,” Dean gasps, his body trembling. “Sam, I’m sorry.”

That is the only warning before Dean lapses into what can only be described as involuntary spasms. Both hands claw Sam’s hips as he hammers his ass. It isn’t like anything Sam has ever experienced before. He has fingered himself and used a dildo, gently, carefully.

It's nothing like this. This is Dean, alive and on fire for him. Full and burning, inside and out. There is a hint of future pleasure beneath the pain. He grips the sheets and bites back his cries. Dean drives in and out of him in utter, rhythmless abandon, grunting like a wild thing.

In a moment of mercy, Dean’s cock slides over Sam’s prostate, granting new perspective: it hurts like Heaven. Filthy curses and praise fall from his mouth like a damned saint. “Fuck me. Oh my fucking God. Dean. Oh, my God. Fuck. Oh fuck, yes. Please.”

“Sam.” Dean gasps, muscles tightening already. He drops himself against Sam’s back as he yelps and convulses.

Sam pushes up, lifting his own body along with the boy on his back so he can grab hold of his sputtering cock. In a few smooth strokes, he groans and releases onto the Prussian blue, satin sheets. He collapses into the wet spot with Dean still on his back and lodged within him.

They lay that way for a brief moment, catching their breaths until Sam gets the sneaking suspicion the kid has fallen asleep. He gives Dean’s leg a little pat receives a grunted complaint. Dean arches his back to remove himself with the condom in tact. He ties and discards it on the floor beside the bed.

Sam stands and wipes his hand in the top sheet. “Hop up.”

Dean groans, but climbs to his feet so Sam can bunch up the fabric.

"You sound like a wounded puppy.”

“Fuck you.”

“Come here, puppy.” Sam catches him in a headlock and then, tosses him onto his back on the mattress.

Dean squirms and wrestles against Sam who is probably twice his weight and half a foot taller. Being smaller is not necessarily a disadvantage, though and his body is slippery with sweat. He writhes away, rolling up and contracting himself in movements that are far from professional. Still, they serve the purpose of making him difficult to pin.

In the end, Sam’s six years of actual wrestling experience allow him to capture Dean in a body scissor. Sam’s legs locked around his middle and an arm, firmly around his neck. “You surrender?”

“Never.” Dean bucks and strains until he’s breathless.

He rests for a few seconds and tries to break the hold again. Sam grins and lets him tire himself out.

Finally, Dean acquiesces and tilts back his head, exposing his neck in concession. Sam laughs and slips down to pin the boy flat on his back. He lays still with both arms out to the side, secured in place by Sam’s fists around his wrists. Sam tongues his Adam’s apple and hums at the delectable brackishness of his sweat, not all so different from his come. When Dean moans, the vibration tickles Sam’s mouth.

Sam drops onto his back and sighs, more satiated than he’s been in years. Dean tucks himself into his side, with one of his slim, well-muscled thighs curled up over Sam’s middle. He runs a finger over the jagged, pink curve of indentations of teeth marks Sam left in his own forearm. “Did it hurt?”

“Just a little.”

Dean leans up on his elbow, worry etched in his furrowed brow. “Why didn’t you say something? I didn’t want to fucking hurt you.”

“I liked it.” Sam wipes a hand over his forehead, trying to ease away the concern. It doesn’t work, so he changes the subject by tracing the scar on Dean’s chest. “What is this?”

“Birthmark.”

Sam leans up to get a better look. “Doesn’t your mom have the same one?”

“Why the hell do you know that?”

“The day we met … she wasn’t wearing much.”

“Yeah.” Dean concedes, as if he just remembers that detail.

“That’s kind of strange, isn’t it?” Sam pets the mark until Dean stays his hand.

“Hereditary birthmarks? It’s a thing. Look it up.”

“Hm.” Sam folds his right arm back behind his head and runs his left fingers over the shell of Dean’s ear. After a few minutes, he announces, “This movie is extremely stupid?”

“Hey, chill with the blasphemy. You missed most of it."

“Yeah, I think I may be glad of that.”

Dean squints up at him. “How old are you?

Sam laughs at the indictment, as if his age is what makes this movie stupid. “Twenty-seven.”

Dean’s solemn nod isn’t an encouraging reaction.

“Creeped out now?”

“I’m old enough to know what I want,” Dean replies, still so serious.

Sam sits up so he can get a good look at his face. If he could only crack the boy open and see what’s darkening his mood. “When was your first time?”

Dean watches the screen. Sam has gone too far.

“It depends on what you count. First chick, I was eleven. She was sixteen, by the way.” Dean smirks.

Sam waits for Dean to turn the question on him.

“Since you got to know, first guy I was nine.”

“Wow." Sam's more weirded out than impressed. He's not even sure he knew what sex was at nine. "How old was he?”

“Not a kid.”

Sam covers his mouth with his hand. Dean’s eyes remain focused on the TV. Not knowing what else to do, Sam strokes his arm. It's no surprise when Dean tenses. “You want to talk about it?”

“Why, you getting paid by the hour? Nothing to talk about. It happened. It’s over.”

“Was it…” Sam’s not even sure what he wants to ask. The words dissolve into the sour taste of bile.

“When having a girlfriend isn't enough, you go after her kid.”

“Does your mother know about it?”

“Who knows?”

Sam wipes the back of his neck. “How am I supposed to keep from feeling like I’m taking advantage of you?”

“Number one, are you that asshole? No. Secondly, I fucking want you.” Dean's smile is beautiful as always, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. He punches Sam’s chest. “Dude. Don’t worry your pretty head so much.”

“You know what I want to do?"

Dean looks at him, waiting for the answer.

“I want to find this guy and earn myself a few years in prison.” The honesty of that statement startles Sam. It’s not a thought he’s ever had.

“You?”

Sam strokes his trembling fingers down Dean’s face. The thought that anyone would ever hurt him constricts Sam’s throat. It’s useless for Sam to wish he could have been there to protect Dean. That fact doesn’t stop him from wishing it. He wipes the corner of his eye with his shoulder. His face stings. With a bit of effort, he controls his voice. "When’s the last time you saw your dad?”

“What the fuck? You sure you aren’t a shrink?” Dean narrows his eyes. “How is that related?”

“Just a question.” Sam keeps his eyes on the TV, hoping it will make Dean a little less edgy if he doesn’t look directly at him.

“I don’t talk about this shit, Sam.”

Sam bites his bottom lip. He wants to press the point but that would be counterproductive.

Dean sighs. “Last year. My team won our division. They had this big write up in the paper. He showed up outside of my school. I ran like hell. Hid in a dumpster. That what you wanted to know?”

“Your mom ever call the cops?" If Sam lays his hand over Dean’s, that will probably shut the boy down. He folds it with the other one in his lap. “Was this your first time topping?”

“Fuck you. What are you trying to do?” Dean jumps off the bed and starts to pull on his jeans. “No. Okay?”

Sam sidles to the edge of the bed and pulls him back, so that Dean is seated between his thighs. He smooths a hand down the boy’s tense shoulder and rests the other on his belly. “I’m just trying to understand you. This was my first time ... catching.” He smiles against Dean’s neck. “It was amazing. You’re amazing.”

Sam hooks his chin on Dean’s shoulder and holds his lips to his throat, reveling in the sensation of his pulse. “And 18 is arbitrary.”

When Sam was sixteen he was often mistaken for older, because of his height. Psychologically, he was little more than a child. If some adult had tried to have sex with him, it would have been a crime. That person would have deserved to be locked up and have the key tossed into the ocean.

It makes him a little sad to think it, but Sam’s not sure Dean was ever really a kid.

*******

 

“When’s the last time you talked to your mother?” Two can play this crackpot psychiatry game.

Sam pushes Dean to his feet. Then he stands and pulls on his boxer briefs. “It’s been a while. My dad’s party, I guess. It was about five years before that.” He pulls a fresh sheet from the bench in the corner of the room.

Dean scoots up to the head of the bed. “That’s insane. You know that, right?”

“She’s the only reason I was there at all. She thought it would be some kind of warm, wonderful reunion.” Sam scoffs and shakes the fabric loose before he tosses it over the bed.

Dean doesn’t move, and it covers his head. Grinning like a little kid, he peels it down. “Maybe it could have been if you hadn’t left after five minutes.”

“You’ve seen how he acts. He didn’t want me there.”

“Fuck him.” Dean shrugs. “You should go see your mom. You would kick yourself if something happened to her and you hadn’t, you know, patched up whatever went wrong between you two.”

“Nothing went wrong between us. She’s just respecting my dad’s wishes.” Sam leaves the room.

Dean hops up and follows him into the living room. “What’s the deal, Sam? People don’t lose it like your dad did for no reason.”

“I don’t know. I sincerely don’t.” Sam turns his back, running his fingers over books on his shelf.

There’s no way he wants to read right now. Dean puts an arm around Sam’s waist and rests his chin on his back. “Hey. Come on, Dr. Phil. You can dish it; you can take it. ”

Sam turns and squints down at Dean for a moment. He clamps his eyes tight. For just a moment, he sways on his feet, like the Eiffel Tower ready to topple.

“Whoa. Dude. You okay?” Dean braces himself to hold Sam’s weight.

Sam nods and plops on the sofa. Dean settles beside him and pulls a tuft of his chest hair. Sam clamps down on his hand. “Ow.”

“You like it.”

“I don’t like it.” Sam takes a deep breath.

Dean smirks. “You like it.”

“You know what I like? The way you smell.” He nuzzles Dean’s cheek before he licks a broad, sloppy stripe.

Dean wipes the away trail of the spit and turns up his nose at his hand like he’s been slobbered on by a St. Bernard. “Never do that shit again.”

Sam cracks up laughing. “The look on your face.”

“Seriously. That’s disgusting.”

“Come here.” Sam pulls on Dean until he’s straddling his lap and stands.

“Put me down, Sam.” Dean struggles, squirming to get Sam to drop him. “I’m serious. I do not fucking like this.”

He's still complaining when Sam presses him up against the wall, alternating between nibbling and slurping any body part he can reach.

“Sam." Dean beats on his shoulders. "I mean it. Knock it off.”

Sam grins like a Cheshire cat, drops him to his feet, takes a few steps back. He slumps against the wall, spins, and slides to his ass on the floor. He laughs for a few seconds before his head falls forward. “I have to pee.”

“What the hell?” Dean stares and waits for this to make sense.

“I'm going to pee on myself.” Sam giggles.

Dean curls up his nose. “Then, go to the bathroom, Sam.”

“Can’t. Can't move.”

“You can move. Just get up.”Deans lifts his arm. When he lets go, it falls like dead weight to the floor.

“I can't. I can’t.” Sam whimpers like a stubborn child.

“Dude, what the hell…”

“Sugar. I told you.” Sam sobs or laughs.

“That was like an hour ago?”

Sam sags back against the wall before his eyes flutter shut.

Dean chuckles to himself. “No fucking way.”

 

 *******  

 

Sometime before dawn, Sam wakes up on the living room floor. This can’t be good.

Dean is leaned up against him with an arm draped around his middle. Sam wipes the dried spittle from the corner of his mouth and runs a finger down Dean’s arm. “Hey.”

“What?” 

“If I don’t take you home now, it’s not going to happen.”

As it is, the idea of driving Dean home is unappealing. Getting up and into the bed is not much better. Sam feels like he’s been on the business end of a battering ram. 

Dean mumbles against his chest, incoherent. Sam pushes back against the wall, swoops Dean up into a princess carry and stands. It works like magic. 

“No. Absolutely not.” Dean hops out of his arms, lands on his feet and stretches out his neck and shoulders. 

He bats his eyelids a few times before picking his wedgie and heading back into the bedroom. Sam just shakes his head and huffs.

Settled back against the pillow with the remote control, Dean grins. “Star Trek. Nice.”

“You want to watch _another_ movie?” Sam eases in beside him. 

“What? You don’t?” 

“It’s 4 o'clock in the morning, Dean.”

“Yeah, but tomorrow is Saturday. Or today is. Anyway, we can sleep until noon, fuck, eat and then, go back to sleep.”

Sam is speechless and surprised with how on board he is with that plan. 

Dean lays the remote on his own chest and stretches his arms behind his head. “Mmmm. Man, do you have any idea what I would do to Chris Pine?”

Sam shrugs. He has no idea who that is. Dean reaches over and plucks Sam’s nipple until it buds into a stiff nub. He closes his eyes and lets the surge lick at his spine.

“Did you know that there’s a whole mess of gadgets and stuff that only exist because of Gene Roddenberry?” 

Sam didn’t know that, because he has never heard of Gene Roddenberry. 

“Hey, what inventions did they not have in your day?” 

“Dean, you act like I’m a hundred years older than you.” Sam ruffles the boy’s hair, unsure if he’s just trying to get under Sam’s skin. 

“Yeah, but like, did they have internet and cell phones and what not?” 

“Are you seriously asking me that? Yeah. Sheesh.” Sam laughs a little to himself. “But you know what my mother used to do? She used to make us commit the important numbers to memory. She always said in case of some emergency, they should be saved in our brain and not in just in our phones.” 

“That’s crazy. What’s going to happen to your phone?” 

“I know. But I still do it. I've actually, already learned yours by heart. That’s how you know I like you.” Sam pinches his cheek.

Dean jerks away and makes the most lovable annoyed face. Sam does it again just for the reaction. Dean flops onto his back and stares at the ceiling. “I guess I would learn Jody’s but we never keep ours. New town, new phone. She says it keeps my dad from tracking us.” 

“Is he in the CIA or something?” 

“Just a crazy shit head.” 

They lay there with shouts and explosions blaring in the background. Thinking the kid must have fallen asleep, Sam runs a fingertip down his sternum. 

Dean whispers, “Hey. Can I see your guy?” 

Sam’s hand freezes. “Please don’t call him that.” 

“Fine. Your ‘ex.’ Do you have a picture or something?” 

“Why?” 

“Just curious.” 

Sam shakes his head, exhaling loudly. He hates everything about it. “You want me to get up, right now and find a picture of him?” 

“Don’t you have one in your phone or something?”

Sam glances at his phone where it lays, harmless until now, on the nightstand. He probably does have a picture, but he does not want to be talking about Castiel, let alone looking for photos of him to share with his new … whatever Dean is. “Seriously, Dean?” 

“Yeah.” 

“If it’s that important to you, you can look through and see if you find one.” He hands him the phone and holds his breath. 

It takes about a minute for Dean to find a selfie Castiel had taken in a pair of leather booty shorts and a hot pink tank top. His ass is the feature, but he peers back at the camera over his shoulder. Dean’s brow raises, clearly impressed. “Pretty.”

Sam clears his throat, sick to his stomach. 

“Is he…” 

“I don’t want to talk about him, Dean.” 

Dean studies the photo for a second longer before Sam reclaims his phone.

“Then, what do you want to talk about?” 

“Something else.” Sam deletes the photo, drops the phone into the table drawer and shuts it, for good measure. 

“Fine. You think your dad's pissed you like guys?”

Conversation isn’t a good idea. Sam sits up on the edge of the bed with his back to the kid. Suddenly, he wants nothing more than to send Dean home. “He doesn’t know.”

“So, is there something else wrong with you that I should know about?” 

Sam winces. He could call a cab. “Dean, maybe we shouldn’t talk anymore.” 

Dean crawls up behind him, wrapping his legs around his waist. “Okay, Sensitive. Then, why don’t you tell me what you thought of the game?” 

“I already told you what I thought of the game.” Sam closes his eyes, trying to cool his roiling emotions. 

Dean's hands glide over Sam’s pecs. “I want to hear it again.” 

“I think, that you are, without question, the best young quarterback I’ve ever seen. Way better than I was at your age. But that wouldn’t take much, because I wasn’t actually that great. I was good, but …” 

“I don’t want to hear about you. I want to hear about me.” 

Sam laughs out loud and spins to tackle Dean onto his back again. He fights, but Sam pulls his arms above his head without much effort. The boy could use a shower. Sam pins his wrists together with one hand and tickles his ribs until he is a beautiful, twisting, breathless mess.

“Fuck you. That’s not fair, you fucking caveman.” Dean tries to sit up, muscles in his stomach cording beneath Sam’s hand.

Sam draws back to get a good look at him. Dean stills beneath his gaze. “What?”

There is no way this ends well for Sam. He drops a soft peck on a freckled nose and says, “Nothing.”

 


	17. Chapter 17

**SATURDAY**

 

The plan had been to wake Sam up with a stiff dick down his throat, but the guy is already gone by the time Dean rolls over in his Charmin cloud of a bed.

Dean has never slept so well in his life; it had to be the mattress. He's only fallen off the couch twice, but suffers a few sleepless hours in the middle of most nights. Not here. This mattress must be stuffed with marshmallows.

It can't be Sam, other than the body heat, maybe.

Speaking of Sam, he's showered, dressed and in the kitchen rooting around in the fridge. He turns his nose up, holds up a hand and won't let Dean approach until he’s had a shower, too. “I mean it. Go, wash. You smell like a kangaroo.”

A quick shower winds up taking half an hour. The water pressure is out of this world. Just when Dean thought nothing could be more luxurious than that bed...

Once his skin is all pruny, Dean puts back on his jeans and one of Sam’s t-shirts, which only looks somewhat stupid hanging off his shoulders. He returns to the kitchen with a fluffy, Downy-fresh, snow-white towel wrapped around his head. Sam hovers over a silver bowl surrounded by ingredients, his mother’s son. 

The landline phone is wrapped in its cables on top of the trashcan. Dean holds it up, the question in his eyes before he asks, “Kaput?” 

Sam takes it from him, steps on the pedal so he can drop it into the can. “I’m getting that line shut off. I’m, also, probably, going to wind up getting a new cell phone. I’ll let you know the number when I do.” 

“Okay.” Dean doesn’t ask the series of questions that could follow. 

“Bigger fish: I have one egg.” Sam holds it up to show Dean. 

“Awesome?” 

“That’s not going to cut it. One egg and no coconut oil. We’re going to have to go shopping.” Sam unties the apron from around his waist. 

“Dude, I don’t have to have--”

“I want to make you pancakes. I _will_ make you pancakes.” 

“Okay.”

If Sam only knew, Dean's usual breakfast is potato chips and beer. When was the last time he had an egg that wasn’t shaped like a hockey puck?

Sam pokes him with the spatula. “You’re a growing boy. I want to fatten you up. 

“You want to fatten me up? That’s what you like?” Dean pokes out his abs, so he looks like he’s about five months pregnant.

“Not too fat. Just … I want to feed you. Put your shoes on and stop talking back.”

How’re you going to say no a guy who wants to feed you?

“Yes, sir.”

 

*** 

 

Dean ignores the buzzing in his pocket, so Sam does the same. When the kid peels his sleeve up over his shoulder, Sam can’t help but grin and shake his head. Dean flexes beside a glossy cover featuring a cute guy Sam has never seen. He pokes out his lips like a duck and asks, “Me or Chris Pratt?” 

Sam smiles. “You. Every time.” 

“That’s what I thought.” He kisses his own bicep and tosses the magazine on top of the groceries. 

Dean has opinions about Chris Pratt, because his nose is shoved so far into the pages of that rag that Sam has to grab the back of his shirt to keep him from stepping into traffic. 

Dean gapes over at Sam like he had forgotten that he was there. He rolls up the magazine and stuffs it into the canvas bag of groceries. His arm slides around Sam’s waist, he hooks a thumb into one of his belt loops and starts to hum.

Sam tenses, searches left and right for spectators before he slings his arm over Dean’s shoulder. With no one watching, he’s even so bold as to kiss Dean’s temple.

The kid chuckles as they cross the street.

 

 *******  

 

Dean has eaten in Waffle Houses and IHOPs and other fine establishments around this great nation. What he’s been calling pancakes all his life are cow patties. 

Sam’s pancakes are not even real. They’re too light and fluffy to be real. And it’s not Aunt Jemima syrup slathered on them either. Sam cooks actual fucking berries for him and makes some kind of warm jelly stuff that would make Mary Winchester proud. Then he tops it all with whipped cream. Not that spray out of a can, non-dairy crap that Dean had been addicted to as a little kid. Real, grass-fed cream that Dean watched Sam put into a blender and whip until it was all stiff and scrumptious.

Of course, Sam doesn’t have any of it, because there are about three things that Sam will eat. Dean sure as shit devours every bite on his plate and goes back for thirds. Sam just stands there with his swamp water smoothie, smiling while Dean stuffs his face.

When he’s done, Sam clears the table. Dean eases up behind him at the sink and rests his face on Sam’s shoulder, rubbing his chest. Who ever knew washing dishes was so sexy? “How can I ever repay you?” 

Sam tries to slide away. Dean holds him tight and burrows his nose in that warm spot between the shoulder blades. He takes two fists full of rock-hard pecs. 

Sam pats his hands and tries, again, to weasel free. Finally, he takes Dean’s wrist and leads him to the sofa, but perches all the way over on the opposite arm rest, like a gigantic bird.

“What?” Dean eyes him, suspicious.

This has the distinct feel of a mafia sit-down.

Sam wrings his hands between his own knees. “I just want you to know that’s not the only reason you’re here.”

“I’m totally fine with it, if it is.” Dean nestles his socked foot in Sam’s crotch. 

“It’s not, though.”

“You keep talking. I want to see if I can get you off like this.” 

“Dean.” Sam catches his foot, peels off the sock and wiggles his fingers a few inches from his sole.

“Dude.” Dean tries to yank back his foot, but Sam has his ankle in a vice grip.

“Yes?” Sam grins and raises Dean’s leg. 

He nuzzles Dean’s instep. Then, he licks it.

“You’re kind of a freak, you know that?” 

“Do you like it?” 

Dean’s not sure, so he doesn’t answer. Sam sucks his big toe. Dean’s mouth falls open, but there is nothing he can say. It’s way hotter than it should be. 

Those huge paws graze up his calves, under his knees until he’s working Dean’s thigh muscles. And damn, that’s amazing, too. Sam grabs hold of Dean’s arm and trades his toe for his thumb, cheeks hollowing like he’s getting paid. Dean’s jaw goes slack. “Fuck, Sam.” 

Sam's eyes are dark and dangerous, and Dean is about to get pounded. He doesn't protest when Sam drags his pants off and tosses them over the back of the sofa. 

Sam opens his own fly and draws out that monster. 

“Shit.”

Sam may as well be penetrating him already with his intense, unblinking stare. Dean pants like a hungry little slut, because, well, damn. Sam is a thing of beauty, his manhood is awe-inspiring, and Dean is in fucking awe.

Taking a dick is easy. There is literally nothing to it but to lay there and take it. On the other hand, enjoying getting fucked is 78% psychological. If Dean is going to take that thing and not feel like he’s getting split in half, he is going to have to chill the fuck out.

He takes a deep breath. By the time he’s breathing out again, Sam has swallowed his entire dick. 

“Ho…” Dean’s head jerks up from the sofa.

Sam pushes him back, encouraging him to relax. Dean moans and rests his hands on Sam’s neck. Sam stills for a moment, waiting for Dean to move before he slides all the way off, tongue dragging against the underside. Sam hums, the vibration shooting through Dean’s shaft and right up his spine. “Ah. Fuck. Do that again.” 

He does it over and over until Dean has low-level electricity coursing through his veins.

Sam’s tongue circles round the tip of his dick before he engulfs the whole thing again. Lips pressed to Dean’s pubes, he swallows a few times in succession.

Dean tucks his chin to his chest, mouth contorted, legs trembling. “That’s so fucking good.”

Sam works him smooth and sweet and builds pressure build so slow that Dean starts to keel over, dizzy. Without changing his rhythm, Sam catches and pushes him back onto the sofa.

Sam peeks up between strands of his hair. Dean wipes them out of his face and takes a firm handful. Sam moans on his dick and a flare bursts in the center of Dean’s chest. “Yeah, Sam. Look at me. Let me see your eyes… God, you’re so … your fucking mouth.”    

There’s no train of thought to continue, only gibberish and hitched breath as his hips rise from the sofa, chasing perfection. Sam’s hands slide around, grip Dean's ass and drag him closer, the fingers of one hand sliding between his crack. Before his mind can react to that, Dean’s muscles tighten. His balls contract and he shoots down Sam’s throat, both hands curled tight in his hair. “God, Sam.”

Sam leans back against the arm of the sofa, watching him come down. When the blood has finally returned to his brain, Dean reaches out to return the favor. Sam takes his hand and kisses it before he flashes a smile. “I should get some work done.”

If Dean wasn’t so well-fed and sucked-out, he’d worry that he’s messed up somehow. As it is, he lays there, basking on the leather until his damp ass sticks to it.

 

***

 

Sam stuffs in his earbuds. Debussy. 

He looks at the numbers, crunches a few, valiantly pretends to work for a solid hour before he sighs, shakes his head and places his glasses on top of the file. 

For a while, he hovers at the door to the living room. Dean has removed every stitch of clothing and is laid out on the sofa reading Dante, plucked from Sam’s shelf. He doesn’t raise his eyes when he asks, “You done?”

“I don’t think I’m going to be able to to get much accomplished.”

The line of Dean’s pale body on his black leather couch is life-changing. Sam could paint him, fuck him and then paint him again, forever on repeat - this boy and his painful beauty. 

Dean rests the book on his chest. “Am I bothering you?” 

Sam huffs, voice catching in his throat. “No. I,  just … don’t want to work while you’re here.”

Dean’s smile is his reward for wise decision making. “So, what do you want to do?”

 

*******

 

Sam pats him on the back. “Come on. Three more.” 

“Dude. You just said one more.” With his legs on fire, Dean completes another squat with a pair of 50 lbs. dumbbells hugged across his chest. 

“Yeah. And three more after that.”

“Fucker.” He finishes his reps and lets the weights clang to the floor. “You trying to fucking kill me?”

“I’m trying to toughen you up, little jerk.” Sam slaps his chest.

“I’m going to toughen _you_ up, bitch.” Dean pushes him onto the workout bench and pins him there with his hands on Sam’s knees. 

Smirking, Dean pulls Sam’s shirt up over his head. “Time to climb bareback mountain.” 

“That’s so bad.” Sam shakes his hair to make it fall back into place, but he only winds up making himself look wilder. 

Dean takes two fistfuls and yanks Sam’s head back. He clamps onto his throat and sucks like he’s going for blood. 

“Jesus.” Sam’s hands clasp his back.

Dean twists out of his grip to tug off his own sweaty shirt. He drops his boxers, licks his lips, and curls them into a dirty half-smile.

Sam buries his face in his hands. “Okay. I’m sorry. This is too much like a porno.” 

“So?” Dean tucks one knee between Sam’s open legs to crawl onto the bench.

“I can’t.” Sam stands and drags Dean by the hand into his bedroom. 

“Oh, now, you’re a fucking Puritan all of a sudden?” 

Sam sits at the edge of the bed and helps himself to a palmful of Dean’s dick. “Okay. So, you were saying?” 

Dean uses the fingers coiled in Sam’s hair to drag his face to his crotch. He strokes back the soft strands to get a clear view of Sam’s face: mouth parted, eyes closed like a man in prayer. “You like that?”

“Mmhm.”

“Show me. How much do you like it?”

Sam nuzzles Dean’s wood, kisses and licks, hazel eyes searching up for approval. Dean pats his cheek. “That’s good. Get on your back.” 

Sam does as he’s told, but props up on his elbows to watch Dean fall to his knees and take that ten-inch miracle in both hands. “This thing is a fucking masterpiece, man.” 

Sam’s breath hitches. “I can’t exactly take credit.” 

“I’ll have to tell the coach he sired a beast.” Dean grins and starts him off with a lick to the tip.

Sam’s head falls back like it’s about to topple from his shoulders.

Dean wets the corners of his lips to keep them from cracking as he takes Sam as far as he can without choking. It’s no small task. His jaw is liable to come unhinged before he's taken half of it, but he lets spit slide down into his palm, twisting his wrist to give Sam friction and pressure on the whole shaft. 

Dean pulls off and takes a second. He fucking hates to gag - how can Sam loves it so much? But he can make it good without that. With the base of The Beast in his fist, Dean hollows his cheeks and bobs up and down, making a filthy squelching sound that gets his own dick hard. 

Through all of it, Sam remains quiet, stone still except for his thighs quaking against Dean’s ribs.

Even with Dean controlling the pace and depth, he goes too far and Sam’s tip brushes the back of his throat. He gasps and pulls off, wiping his face with the back of his hand, trying not to let on how close he is to throwing up and takes a few breaths to collect himself.

Sam reaches down for his arms. “Hey. Come here and kiss me.”

Dean’s still not ready for that, but he needs a break. He crawls up Sam’s body. A huge hand cups the back of his neck, tries to urge him close. Dean resists and Sam releases him with a smile. “You're incredible. You know that?” 

This is not what incredible feels like. He buries his face in Sam’s pillow, concentrating on the guy’s heart pumping against his chest.

Sam’s hand passes up and down his back. “Dean. Do you actually like this?” 

Dean leans up and looks at Sam's face. 

“I mean, being with guys.” 

“I came on to you. Remember that?” 

Sam nods, not looking very convinced. 

Dean would never say so, but sex with guys is better than with chicks. Foreplay is optional. You don’t have to worry about getting too rough and knocking their heads against a wall. Then, there’s the whole taboo side of it. Being with guys is like giving a honking middle finger to the rest of society. Not to mention... yeah. It's just better.

Girls are soft and nice; Dean definitely likes chicks. But nothing gets his blood going like a big, strong, red-blooded, American male. His taste in men is similar to his mother’s with one exception; Dean prefers guys who, could kick his ass, but never would.

In other words, Sam is perfect.

Dean peers down into infinitely patient, constantly changing hazel eyes. “Yeah. I like it.” 

Fucking guys is awesome, as long as Dean can control the situation - which he usually can, even from the bottom. The fact that Sam wants him to top… Perfection. 

This whole little soul-searching moment is a dick shriveler, though. 

Sam strokes his back. “Should we get up?”  

“I’m not done with you.” Dean slides to the floor, on his knees.

This time, he pushes Sam’s knees up to his shoulders; he’s surprisingly limber for such a large guy. Dean lowers his head and gulps in one of his balls while stroking his dick slow and easy, the way Sam likes. With his other hand, he stretches up and pinches Sam’s nipple.

“Whoa.”

“You like it?” Dean raises his head to check Sam’s expression.

“Yeah. Just … not so hard.”

Dean lets one of Sam’s legs down, so his foot rests on the mattress, knee bent toward the ceiling. He smooths his hand over the dense patch of welts over the back of Sam’s other thigh. “Are you ever going to tell me about this?”

“Not now.”

Fair enough.

Dean tilts his head to take a long look at Sam’s puckered, pink hole. He licks his lips. “I’ve never done this. You have to let me know if it sucks.” 

He slides a palm over the swirl of soft, dark fur and dives in, face-first. He flicks his tongue over the hole and Sam’s hips shift.

“Fuck, no, that does not suck.” 

Dean’s head pops up. “You just cussed.” 

“Yeah.” Sam’s palm covers the back of Dean’s head and sets him back to work.

It’s nothing like licking a girl - none of that slime and stuff. This entrance is resistant instead of inviting. He has to force his tongue in there. There’s definitely an odor, but it’s more earth than ocean. One thing that’s exactly the same - Dean is getting high on the way Sam groans and shakes. He smiles into his mission, wrapping both arms around Sam’s thighs.

Licks from top to bottom, nudges his nose up under Sam’s balls where the warm Sam smell is strongest. Dean breathes it in before he leans back to see how wet he’s gotten everything.

Sam has got a fistful of sheet and the other arm over his face. Dean smiles and slaps his ass. Diving back down, he flicks his tongue back and forth over Sam’s hole, like he would a girl’s clit. Sam’s thighs tighten and threaten to crush Dean’s head. “Good?”

“Mmhm.”

So, Dean does that some more until Sam is shaking, just like a girl. Then, he stiffens his tongue and slides it in again and again. Sam's grunts are all man and so fucking good. Dean palms his cheeks and pulls them apart so he can curl the tip of his tongue and lick the soft inside of him. It’s a strange sensation - like the asshole wants him in and out at the same time. The range of motion is limited, but he flickers the tip as much as he can. Then he ducks his head back and forth, tongue fucking Sam until his own dick weeps for attention.

“Oh, my fucking God, Dean.” 

“Dude. Stop it. You’re going to go to hell.” Dean presses his thumb into Sam’s wet hole then pulls away. “You should see this. You’re totally twitching.”

“Yeah. I can feel it.” 

“It’s hot.” 

Sam tucks his arms under his legs and pulls his knees up to his ears, displaying himself.

“Ready for me to be a pain your ass?”

“Funny.”

Dean spreads lube over his own dick, shuddering at the relief of touching himself. “I’m seriously going to fuck you so hard.”

“Then, stop talking about it.” Sam pants like he’s been running for days. The sheets are already dark with his sweat. 

Dean slips in his middle finger, chanting the instructions to himself. He twists his hand, palm to the ceiling, curls his finger and searches. 

Just when he’s about to give up, Sam’s entire body jerks. He yelps and looks like he’s levitating. The only thing touching the mattress are his heels and his head. “What the fuck have you been watching?” 

“Not watching. Reading. Is it good?” Dean dips the tip of his thumb into him again. 

“Hell, yeah, it’s good.” 

“Then it doesn’t matter.” He brushes over Sam’s nub again just for the reaction. “Cosmo.” 

Sam starts to smile just before his face twists. “Shit.”

“Should I do it again?” 

“Yeah.”

Dean smiles when he gets the same spectacular result. “I could do this all day.”

“You would wear me out.” Sam squeezes the base of his shaft and exhales. 

Dean rolls on his condom, grabs his shining dick like it’s Excalibur and tucks himself between Sam’s wide open thighs. “You ready?” 

Sam nods and blinks up at him. His hand brushes down Dean’s face. “God, you’re so beautiful.” 

Dean ignores the uncomfortable twinge at the comment and nips Sam’s finger before he begins to ease in, forcing a long, low moan out of Sam. Dean pauses to let a shudder pass through his body. 

“Are you…” He wipes a tear from Sam’s cheek with his clean hand. “You good?” 

“Yes,” Sam answers breathlessly and runs his hands down Dean’s back. “Yes. I’m good. Please, don’t stop.”

Dean burrows his face in the crook of Sam’s shoulder and presses on. His body trembles again with the effort of restraining himself. 

“You don’t have to be gentle.” 

“I know.” Once he’s all the way inside of Sam, Dean forces himself to be still, anyway. “You’re so hot. So tight.”

“Dean.” 

“Shut up, Sam.” 

Sam chuckles, and Dean pulls those magnificent, mile-long legs around his waist. Sam’s ankles lock at the small of his back. 

“I’m going to fuck you now.” One sharp snap of his hips before he starts to pound Sam’s ass like a fucking maniac.

The room tilts.

The planet shifts.

Dean has a vision of himself cracking Sam in half so that he can creep in and burrow himself someplace in the center of him where he would never have to leave again. 

Sam clutches onto his arms. “Oh, God. Dean. Fuuuuck.”

“So good. So fucking good.” Dean can’t stand it. He hates it. Hates how much he loves being inside of him. How much he wants Sam. How much he wants Sam to love him and no one else on earth. 

_Jody’s right. He's losing it. He's lost it._

He crushes his hand over Sam’s face and grinds it sideways into the pillow. Punishment for being perfect. 

“Holy fucking God.” Sam cries out, tenses and releases his load all over his own chest.

It’s only a few seconds before Dean explodes inside of Sam, crying out like a little girl. It’s too good. Too intense. He grits his teeth, tries to clamp down on the swell of pleasure and not come quite so hard. He has no control over this thing anymore. His body collapses beside Sam, shaking like a crack fiend.

Sam smooths his hand down Dean’s side. “So good.”

Dean lays there, violated and defenseless, like he is the one who just got fucked.

_He is._

There isn’t even anything he can do about it. _Sam owns him, and he fucking knows it. He has to know._

A smile spreads across Sam’s face, as if he’s heard Dean’s thoughts. “I didn’t take you as the Cosmo type.” 

“You’re welcome.” Dean punches him in the ribs and rolls onto his back, still catching his breath. “I didn’t read the whole fucking thing. Just the Things You Haven’t Tried article and Taylor Swift. That girl is hot as shit.”

“Meh.” Sam hands him the box of tissues from his night table. 

Dean takes a few and deposits the condom in them. “Are you kidding me?” 

“She doesn’t do anything for me?”

“Does any chick?” 

Sam takes the messy tissues from his hands and adds the trash to his own. “I think I could be great friends with Jen Aniston.” 

“Shut up.” Dean holds out his hand until Sam gives him the remote control.

***

Sam laughs all the way to the bathroom. He shakes his head, giddy and stares at his flushed and grinning face in the mirror.

***  

By the time Sam returns, Dean has narrowed it down to three possible channels. Sam sits at the foot of the bed with a hand on Dean’s ankle. “So, what made you seek outside help? Not that I’m complaining. I definitely appreciate that you did research for me.” 

Dean lands on a nature documentary and rests the remote on his stomach. “You give the best head I’ve ever had. Just wanted to return the favor.” 

“Well, thank you.” Sam snickers. ”Next time, check out Loverboy. For our people, by our people.”    

“Yeah. Your mom doesn’t get that one, so…”

Sam laughs and squeezes his foot. Dean pulls away and rests one ankle over the other. Sam’s fingers drum on the mattress, then he walks them toward Dean’s leg like a spider. Dean gives them a light kick, just like he would a real bug. “You probably don’t have any experience with this, but most girls are pitiful at it.”

“I do, actually.” Sam catches his foot again.

Dean mutes the TV. “You do?” 

“Yeah.” Sam smiles over his shoulder at Dean’s burning curiosity. “I was married to a girl.” 

“Stop the fucking presses.” Dean turns the television all the way off and sits upright. “No shit.” 

“We were together for a year before that. Like you said, atrocious head. A for effort, though.” 

“Wow.” Dean processes that for a full five minutes before he asks, “So, where is she now?”

“Probably, hopefully, married to some straight guy.”

“Huh. What’s her name?”

Sam moves around to the side of the bed and lays down. “Ruby. Salins-Winchester, last time I saw her.” 

“Did you actually like her?”

One of Sam’s fingers traces over Dean’s lower lip. “Very much. I loved her. I just didn’t ‘like like’ her.”

“Wow.”

Sam snickers and tugs on his earlobe. “Yeah. Now, you know that.”

“You got any pictures?” 

“What is with you and the pictures?” 

Dean plucks at the trail of hair in the center of Sam’s chest. “Just a thing.”

It’s weird. It isn’t something Dean has ever asked anyone before. He just wants to know, needs to see who has had Sam before him. Dean would die before he admits it out loud, but he wants to be sure that he’s hotter. 

“So, would you like a photograph of every person I’ve ever been attracted to? Or just the ones I’ve slept with?”

“Whatever, dude.” Dean flops onto his back.

He picks his buzzing phone up from the table on his side. It’s just Jody again and he silences it. Screw her.

 

*******

“You don’t have any hotdogs?” Dean stands with the refrigerator door wide open, wearing only his ratty, smelly, checkered boxers. “Isn’t that, like, a staple?” 

Pink slime and nitrates? Sam winces and answers, “No. On both counts.”

“Hm. That’s going to make it more difficult.” He opens the produce bin. “What the hell is this, some kind of space plant?” 

“That’s an artichoke and I’m going to call for Thai.” Sam takes the vegetable from his hand, puts it back and closes the door.

“Tie?” The spelling in Dean’s mind is visible.

“It’s … Asian food?”

“I like Asian.” Dean’s eyebrows waggle.

“Okay.” Sam heads back to the bedroom for his phone. 

“Unless they have some hottie delivering, don’t bother. I said I’m cooking, I’m cooking.” Dean’s nose is back in the fridge. 

Sam stops at the sofa, turns and pours all of his misgivings into his expression.

“I don’t know what’s up with that bitch face. You put on some elevator music, put your big ass feet up and  prepare to have your mind blown.”

Sam cues up Eine Kleine Nachtmusik and grins when Dean starts humming and dancing along like it’s a rock song. The smell of sauteeing onion hits him, requiring incredible willpower to keep from spying on Dean. 

To his credit, what he comes up with is edible. Considering that Dean has never seen tofu in his life, the stir fry is good and if the rice is a little gummy Sam only nods and hums his appreciation. “It’s good. It’s really good.”

“Damn straight.”

Sam subdues the desire to reach out for the hand not shoveling food into his mouth like an excavator.

“Seriously, what is this shit?” Dean spears a cube on the end of his fork and examines it. “Tofu. What is that?” 

“Coagulated soy milk.” 

“Remind me to stop asking?” 

When they’re done, Sam eats the remaining tofu from Dean’s plate, and washes the dishes. He dries his hands, hangs up the towel and wanders into the living to find Dean who is perched on the back of the sofa with his bare feet on the seat. He flips through Dante’s Convivio as if it were a comic book. 

Sam chuckles at the sight. “What do you want to do now?” 

“You.” He spreads his legs and palms his erection. 

It’s such a ridiculous answer, Sam should laugh instead of reeling on his feet. “We have an appointment in a few hours.”

 "Appointment?”

“Yeah. It’s a surprise.” 

“I don’t really like surprises, Sam.” 

“Maybe you’ll like this.” 

“Or maybe you’ll just tell me what it is.” Dean puts down the book and stalks toward him.

Sam stands his ground, but caves on part of it. “I want to have you measured.”

“Measured? What? For like a cock cage or something?”

It’s a good thing they're done with dinner; Sam would have choked and died. “No.”

“It’s a surprise. Fine.” Dean tugs the hem of Sam’s shirt from his pants. “Few hours is good." 

 

*******

 

History teacher at his last school had tried to put him on lock down, called it a ‘chastity device.’ Dean had told him point blank where he could shove that thing.

But for Sam, he’d think about it. Sam in a cage would be hot as fuck.

Dean cups Sam’s wood and watches those marble eyes grow dark. Better to bend him over the edge of the sofa or put him on his knees? “What do you want, Sam?” 

“Whatever you want.”

That stirs up a flash of heat. “Get on your knees.” 

Obedient and eager, Sam looks up for further instruction. 

Dean strokes his hair. “Good boy.”

 Sam smiles, his hand moves to his dick, but Dean nudges it away with his foot. 

“Get over by the sofa.” 

When Sam starts to stand, Dean stops him with a foot in the center of his back, not to hurt him. Just to see how far he’ll let Dean take this shit. “Crawl.” 

He crawls.

“You know what? Take these off.”

Sam rolls onto his ass to remove his pants. Then, he crawls to the couch, rests his cheek on his arms, arches his back, presenting himself like a cat in heat.

“Shit, Sam.” 

Dean stands there for a long time, admiring Sam’s low-hanging nutsack, enjoying his soft moans. Sam starts humping the leather.

“Stop that.”

Sam obeys. “Are you going to fuck me?" 

“No.” 

Sam peeks over his shoulder. “No?” 

“You’re gonna fuck yourself.”

Sam cracks a little smile and raises his hand to his ass. 

Dean nudges it away with his foot. “Not yet. When I fucking say so.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

That flare in Dean’s chest explodes. He’s never been on the receiving end of that one. Now, he can see why guys like it so much. Dean reaches into his boxers and takes his dick into his fist. He jerks fast, and straddles Sam’s back. If he shoots now, he’ll get cum all in Sam’s hair.

Groaning at the fresh wave of heat, he lowers himself behind Sam, slides his dick between his wide open cheeks and spreads precum over his hole. 

“Dean.”

Dean’s skin on fire, head spinning. Forget all this domination shit. He needs to fuck Sam like he needs to breathe. 

Sam’s hand on his chest snaps him out of it, somewhat. 

“Do you have any more condoms?”

Dean shakes his head.

“We can’t.” Sam strokes his face. “Let me...”

It takes a moment for Dean’s vision to clear enough for him to nod and back away. He sits on the floor, inches away from Sam with his legs wide, feet on either side of his thighs. Sam is still leaned over the couch, using his left hand to hold himself open while the tip of his long middle finger circles his rim. 

“Yeah, Sam. That’s good. Good boy.”

Sam’s hole resists then swallows that finger. “Is that your cum?” 

“Yeah.” Dean answers, breathless. 

Sam moans and works his finger in and out. 

“Shit.”

Dean covers Sam’s left hand with his own. Stroking himself like he means fucking business, his left thumb massages the sweet spot between Sam’s sac and his asshole until his big boy is rumbling and shaking like a 12-cylinder engine. “Oh, God, Dean.”

He works Sam’s sac, smacks that ass for the groan he’ll get. Sam is writhing on his own finger. His back is covered in sweat. Dean beats himself so hard and fast, he has to squeeze his eyes shut, face, stomach, ass clenched tight. 

The second his pointer finger slips into that tight heat alongside Sam’s, Dean crashes over the edge shooting on the carpet and the back of Sam's leg. He rests his cheek on the small of Sam’s clammy back so that they’re stuck together, as if by suction and not sweat. “Holy shit. That was hot.”

Sam starts to jerk off, but Dean reaches around and catches his wrist. “I don’t want you to come yet.” 

He puts his arm back on the couch and Dean runs both arms down his flanks. “Sam, you are so fucking hot.” 

He hooks himself over Sam’s shoulder and licks the salty drops from his chin. With his arms tight around Sam’s chest, he grinds - limp but still so turned on it doesn’t make sense. 

When Dean finally stops moving, Sam asks, “Can I now?” 

“No. And don’t fucking ask again. I’ll tell you when.” 

“Yes, sir,” Sam murmurs into the black leather and shudders.  

Dean smiles against his skin, closes his eyes. He could fall asleep right here. “Dammit, Sam.”

“You do know you’re heavy, right?”

 

*** 

Engrossed by the ferocity or the blood, or both, he bites into an apple in slow motion while the leopard mauls and devours a monkey.

Sam observes Dean with the same intrigued silence as the unblinking boy watches the screen. His eyes wander the length of the his body. They hover over the hand at rest on the remote control on his chest. He longs to touch, not disturb, but there isn’t a way to do both. His fingers tap on the mattress. “Dean.” 

“Huh?” He doesn’t look away from the TV. 

Sam’s mouth is dry. “I think ... we should, maybe, talk about what this is. I mean, if it's a ‘booty call’ that’s fine. If it's, you know, something more than that, we should … ” 

Dean plucks Sam’s limp cock. “Strictly carnal. Simpler that way.” 

Sam nods and bites his lip. It was the answer he’d expected, but not necessarily the one he would have given. “Have you ever been in love?” 

“Is that even biologically possible for guys?” 

Sam knocks the kid’s hand away from playing with his foreskin. “Um, yeah. I was in love with Castiel for a while. Head over heels, no one else in the room, in love.” 

For a second, Dean’s eyes burn with unmitigated hatred. Just as quickly, the expression melts into a mischievous smirk. “I bet he looks pretty good in heels.” 

“It could be because he was my first. I’m just saying, it does happen to men.” 

“Yeah, but you're gay. So, does that count? Aren't you guys, like, a third species?”

Sam’s jaw drops. “That’s not remotely offensive.” 

“I mean gender or whatever.” Dean waves his hand, brushing the comment out of the air. 

Sam closes a hand around Dean’s thigh. “And what are you? Exactly.” He holds his breath for this answer. 

“If you got to label me, I’m open-minded.” 

It’s also an evasion. Sam knocks the cocky kid onto his back and straddles his hips, watching his face for signs of discomfort. “That is very evolved of you.”

“That's me. Top of the food chain.” Ever strident, Dean folds his hands behind his head.

Sam taps a finger over his heart, just below the strange, moon-shaped birthmark. “But you've never been in love?” 

Dean clears his throat and bends his knees for Sam to lean back on. “I think I actually represent the next stage for humanity. Telekinesis and polygamy. You have to be really fucking advanced for this shit.” 

"Polygamy suggests marriage. I think you mean polyamory."

"Whatever."

Sam laughs and runs a hand down Dean’s simpering face. “So, you can move things with your mind?” 

“Probably.”

He's too adorable not to kiss, so Sam plants one on his forehead. “And you’re entirely impervious to all manner of emotional attachment?”

“What, are you a dictionary?”

Sam pecks his cheek, nips his nose and sits upright again. His fingers curl over Dean’s shoulders. It’s not his fault if Sam loves him. He has never had his hands on anything so lovable in his life. “Maybe we should get out of bed, go for a walk or something. I can’t have a real conversation like this.” 

“Or you could stop talking and suck my dick.”

 

*******

 

By some miracle, they arrive 10 minutes early. Charlie is with another customer so Sam crosses his legs as Val approaches with a tray of pastries. Dean takes three and holds his other hand over it. “No sugar for him.”

Sam smiles. “No, thank you.” 

Dean hops off his chair. Val swings her waist-length, bone-straight, black hair over her shoulders and stands beside Sam’s chair. They both watch Dean touch every single item in the boutique that he can get his hands on. 

“Anything to drink for your … companion?”  There are a great many layers in that question.

“Water’s fine. Or do you prefer juice?”

Dean looks over his shoulder at the pretty Asian woman serving Sam. “I’ll have what he’s having.”

“Just water, please,” Sam requests. 

She nods and retreats to fulfill the request. Dean leers at Val for a moment and goes on running his inquisitive hands down the bolts of fabric. “Did you ever see Kingsmen?” 

Knowing Dean, it's a TV show. 

“Why, hello, my dear!” Charlie emerges from behind the curtain and greets Sam with the usual, exaggerated exuberance. 

Sam abandons his drink so he can stand and meet her halfway. 

The previous client, an older gentleman, pauses on his way toward the counter to confer with Val to appraise Dean as if he is on the shelf. The man takes a few steps in the boy’s direction, gaze lowering to his ass. Dean disappears behind a row of bolts. 

Sam bites the inside of his cheek, his stomach knots.

“Do you work here?” The man’s voice grates on his nerves. 

Dean’s inaudible causes the man to smile and take another step forward. 

Sam’s chest burns, muscles tighten. “Dean.”

The other man’s head snaps around. He regards Sam and treats himself to another full scan of Dean’s body before he continues with his business. 

Sam crosses the space to take Dean’s side, talking himself down from kissing the boy silly, right there in front of them all - marking and claiming him. He places a light hand on the small of Dean’s back and makes introductions. “Dean, this is Charlie Bradbury. Charlie, Dean.” 

“You want to cover this face?” She asks with a finger below Dean's chin.

Sam replies with a silencing gesture. “He doesn’t know.” 

“He also hates secrets,” Dean adds and rolls his eyes. 

“You have enough time, right?” 

Charlie punches Sam’s arm and smiles. “That’s why you pay me the big bucks. Right this way, handsome.” She ushers Dean behind the curtain.

Sam sips his water and opens his book on his crossed legs. 

The older man approaches and whispers, “Is he yours?” 

Sam’s jaw aches from the clench of his teeth. He thinks of shouting "Yes!" and "No!" and of beating this asshole to a pulp. He forces a smile.

“For hire or...You’ll excuse me. Just looks like a stray, doesn’t he?” The man gazes in the direction Dean and Charlie had gone. “Anyway. He’s lovely. Enjoy.” 

Even after the man has left the shop, Sam's body buzzes and he can’t unfurl his fists. Val’s eyes are on him, but she doesn’t speak. Neither does he.

When those two finally return, Charlie's tape measure is drapped over her shoulders. She places her hands on her hips. “Well, he’s practically perfect in every way.”

No surprise.

Dean stretches his arms over his head displaying his smooth stomach in a way that can’t be accidental. “So, do I get a lollipop?”

“You want to run the thing by him?” Charlie nods toward Sam. 

“Oh, yeah.” Dean looks up at Sam like a kid in a store about to beg for candy. Sam shifts his stance, uncomfortable with the role that casts on him.

“Charlie says I can have this shirt and a couple other ones, if I just take a few pictures. Fully clothed. Am I missing something?”

“I tried to tell Sam, most of my clients are wrinkly old men who appreciate … well … Do I have to spell this out? Are you two not fucking?”

Dean’s eyes pop. He shakes his head at Sam. “Dude. I didn’t say anything.” 

Charlie punches Sam’s arm. “The way you look at him? Do you think you’re being inconspicuous?” 

“You should have seen him nearly tear Terry’s head off,” Val chips in from her station. 

”Who’s Terry?” Dean asks, all altar boy innocence, when he has to know. 

Sam’s face has caught fire. He sputters unsure how to respond. Who is he to give Dean permission or not?

Dean comes to his rescue by pointing at Val. “Yeah, well, you two are fucking, too.” 

Charlie scoffs without a glance at her co-worker. “Damn straight. We been together 13 years. Bitch better put out.” 

Val flips them all off, or perhaps just her lover. 

“So, are we doing this or what?” 

Val sets up lights and a white backdrop while Charlie gets her camera ready. Dean helps himself to what remains of Sam's water. “So, Charlie says she’s been making your clothes for the past two years. Walmart not good enough for you?” 

“I have never stepped foot inside a Walmart.” Sam doesn’t make the remark to be disparaging; he simply has no idea what one would find in the store. 

“That doesn’t even surprise me.” 

“Between these and these … ” Sam frowns at his own disproportionate shoulders, hips and legs. “I can’t exactly grab something off the rack.” 

“Dude, you do know that you're …” Dean searches for a word and comes up with, “gorgeous, right?” 

“New topic, please.” 

“Dude.” Dean shakes his head. “The first time I saw you, I practically jizzed my pants.” 

“That's poetic.” Sam squeezes his eyes shut, ready for this moment to pass. 

Dean drops to the floor on his knees. “Shall I compare you to a summer's day?” 

“No. Please, don’t.” Sam tries to help him to his feet, face burning and no doubt glowing like a Christmas light. 

He scowls at the entertained snickers Charlie and Val make no attempt to hide. 

“Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May

and summer’s lease hath all too short a day...” 

Sam is speechless. Dean is kneeling, holding his hand, reciting Shakespeare in front of the closest thing to a friend Sam has. The whole thing is surreal and ridiculous and he likes it a lot more than he should. 

“I can do the whole thing, if you want.” 

“No. That’s okay.”

“We had to memorize it at my last school,” Dean explains, climbing to his feet. “Never actually thought it'd be useful.” 

“All right, turtle doves.” Charlie motions for them to take their places.

Sam hovers on the border of the backdrop while Dean hops in and puckers his luscious lips into what can only be described as a school girl pout.

Charlie snaps a few. “He’s a natural, isn’t he?” 

Sam chuckles. “He’s a ham.”

“Maybe, but you telling me you wouldn’t stock up on whatever he’s selling?”

Dean flexes, strikes a thoughtful pose with his chin in his hand, runs a hand through his hair, spins, wiggles his ass and glances over his shoulder. The more Sam laughs, the more outlandish he becomes. 

All the while, Charlie snaps away. “OK, Sam, you get in there and kiss him.”

“What?” 

“Not that kind of website. On the cheek. Believe me, my clientele will gobble it up.” 

Dean tugs him by the hand, tucks himself under Sam’s arm and turns up his cheek. Sam's are on fire. The boy taps his face and chirps, “Come on. Lay it on me, big guy.” 

Sam couldn’t deny him if he wanted to.

 

*******

“You want to go get some ice cream or something?” Sam starts the car.

Dean finishes his wide armed, mouth gaping yawn before he asks, “What is with you feeding me ice cream? Is that, like, a fetish of yours?” 

“No. I don’t know.” Sam clears his throat. “I just thought you liked it.” 

“It’s kind of creepy, man. Got this ‘come here, little boy’ vibe to it.”

Sam winces and shakes his head. “Don’t.” 

“I’m fucking with you.” Dean smacks his arm and smiles. “Dude. You gotta lighten up. Look. I’m younger than you. I’m always gonna be. That’s just how it is. Some people are … you know, they’re not going to understand that.” 

All Sam hears is ‘always.’ 

“Fuck ‘em,” Dean says and sits quiet for a moment, ruminating on that great nugget of universal truth. 

Sam searches himself for some of that devil-may-care attitude Dean has in spades. 

“I can always go for some pie, though.” 

Dean locates a fifty-year-old greasy spoon, the Tas-T-Diner, with an app on his phone. Sam’s never been there, but Dean’s so keen on the idea, that’s where they wind up. 

Dean stuffs in another forkful and doesn’t bother to swallow before he asks, “What is even a rhubarb?” 

“It’s a … plant.” Sam attempts, but there’s no way to explain without showing him. 

“You do know that's a bitch answer, right?” 

Sam takes a deep breath. If he never hears that word again... “Do you have to call me that?” 

“Do you have to act like a bitch?” 

“It's misogynistic.”

Dean eyebrows shoot up and he howls. 

Sam rolls his eyes. "It means - " 

"Yeah. I know what it means. And that's probably the bitchiest thing I've heard in my life." He sticks a piece of pie into his grinning mouth. 

"Yeah?” It takes a lot to piss Sam off, but Dean Miller has got what it takes because he swings back with, “Well, you're a jerk." 

Dean raises his coffee before he drinks, unfazed. Sam could have called him an asshole, but that seems kind of harsh - even if it’s true, at times. 

Sam shakes his head and crosses his arms.

Dean leans forward on his elbows and lifts his pie-laden fork to Sam’s mouth. He grins like the little imp he is. Sam should call him that. See how he feels about it. 

Still, annoyed as he is, Sam can’t help but mirror a smaller version of Dean’s smile. But he keeps his lips shut, declining the peace offering. “I shouldn’t.” 

Dean winks and adds an encouraging nod as he presses the pie to Sam’s lips. “Just a little.”

A man at the table next to them is watching. A chill works its way down Sam's spine. Since Dean is never going to take no for an answer, Sam takes the pie and swallows without chewing. “Happy?” 

Dean follows his gaze. “Sam, look at me. Fuck. Them.” 

It's an easy thing to say.

“Repeat after me.” 

“I get it.”

 “I don’t think so.” Dean points at a staring woman. “Look that chick right in the eye and say it.” 

When Sam refuses, Dean turns and glares at her. “Hey. You got a problem?”

“Come on. Don’t.” Sam puts his hand on Dean’s wrist. 

When the kid turns around, his face is taut, mouth set. “Come, now.”

Sam blinks. “What?” 

“Come. Right now.” 

Sam considers arguing, but he doesn’t want to. When this game started, he committed to it. Castiel used to insist they play this way, except that he always expected Sam to dominate. Now that the shoe’s on the other foot, Sam wants to obey. At times, he feels like he could follow Dean to the ends of the earth, if the boy asked right. The thought is unnerving and freeing at the same time, which is unnerving all over again. 

Mind reeling, Sam rises to go to the bathroom. 

“No,” Dean barks, not bothering to keep his voice down. “Here.” 

Sam searches the diner. People are mostly minding their own business again. He leans down to whisper, “Dean, this… This is a game for at home.” 

“It’s for when I fucking say.” 

Sam slides back into his seat and tries to reason with a force of nature. “Listen--”

“Are you gonna do it or what?”

“Dean. This is a public place.” He's tossing logic into a hurricane. 

“Do you want me to go under the table and take care of it for you?” Eyes trained on Sam’s, he knocks his fork to the cracked linoleum floor. 

It lands with an improbably loud clink and a few people look in their direction. That doesn’t seem to be an issue for Dean. “Three. Two--” 

“You’re insane.”

Blood boiling, already hard enough to cut diamonds, Sam swallows and opens his pants beneath the table. 

Their waitress touches it as she passes. “Y’all need anything.”

Sam forces a tight-lipped smile.

“No, ma’am,” Dean answers with his green eyes dark and burrowing into Sam. “Now.” 

Sam’s head swims, heart rate out of the roof. “Dean.”

“Are you doing this?”

Dean’s coffee shakes as Sam’s trembling thigh bumps the table leg. Sam takes a deep breath and sits back. The moment he touches himself, he squeezes his eyes shut, pleasure amplified by the imminent danger of getting caught.

“Open your eyes, Sam. Look at me.” At least Dean has the decency to lower his voice now. 

Sam obeys, and a blaze surges through him. Dean is leaning halfway across the table, breathing through his mouth. His eyes are still fixed on Sam’s. So are the man’s at the counter. 

Dean grabs Sam’s face. "Don’t you fucking look at them.”

“Dean,” Sam whimpers and strokes. 

“That’s it, baby. Take care of yourself. Fuck these losers. This is about me and you.” He’s whispering now - voice barely audible even so close. 

Dean sits back and his right arm slips under the table, too. There is a lash of fire for every movement, every word and a blanket of heat brought on by Dean’s constant, penetrating gaze. Sam’s not sure he could stop if Dean ordered it. 

“That’s it, Sammy.” 

Sam shakes away Castiel’s pet name for him. 

“Come. Now.” Dean breathes the words. 

Sam does as he’s told. An avalanche of pleasure sweeps from his head to his curled toes. His body shivers and a small, broken sound escapes his bloody lips. He has bitten the hell out of them trying to keep himself quiet. 

Before his breath has settled again, Sam reaches for a napkin. 

“Uh-uh.” Dean holds out his palm and gestures with his fingers. Sam supplies his left hand. Dean’s eyes remain steely until Sam dredges up his soiled right hand. With his eyes still gripping Sam’s, the kid sucks the come from his middle finger and moans like it’s better than his pie.   

Dean has already said that he doesn’t love the taste of semen, but this is not about that. Sam’s not sure what it’s about.

“Dean,” he whimpers with his finger hanging out of the kid‘s mouth. 

Castiel was unpredictable, but one thing Sam could always count on: no blatant public affection. Cas had suffered enough beatdowns to have learned that lesson well.

Sam has entered a different universe. He's dreaming or dead, but none of this is real. Dean is a mirage and Sam is hallucinating. There’s no other feasible explanation for what's happening.

When Dean lets Sam wipe his hand, they have become center stage. Maybe the other patrons of this place think Sam's underage boyfriend has eaten pie filling from his fingers. Sam shivers, not daring to raise his eyes to anyone’s face but Dean’s.

Dean licks his lips and says, “Good boy.”

 

 *******  

 

It's the middle of the night and they’re laying naked on the cloud, AKA, Sam’s bed.

It’s a good thing Dean is into Sam, because he would be tempted to keep coming around just for the bed. 

Dean’s watching Yes Man while Sam makes out with his hand. Correction: Dean is pretending to watch Yes Man. Every cell in his body is aware of the brush of soft lips and the scruff on his palm, the warm slide of tongue between his fingers, the hot suction when Sam sucks on them. Every little thing Sam does sends a smoke signal to Dean’s dick.

Then it stops and it’s all Dean can do not to complain. 

“Let’s go somewhere,” Sam says, at the same time as Jim Carey and that hot, goofy girl board a plane.

Dean grins, assuming it’s a game. “What, like these guys? Anywhere?”

“Yeah. You said you don’t have school Monday.” 

“Some kind of Teacher Work thing.”

“Have you been to New York in the fall?” 

“I've never been to New York in the ever.” Of all the places Dean and his mother have been, they never go anywhere people want to be. 

“Okay, then. Done.” Sam hops up and leaves the room. 

Dean watches him go, because, that’s a sight to behold. Sam returns less than a minute later with a laptop. Sitting cross-legged, he types while Dean watches the movie, more or less ignoring him until Sam asks, “What do you think of a 7:30 departure? It’s brutal, but then we’ll have more of the day in town.”

“You're not serious?” 

Sam’s browser is open to a travel website. “Of course, I am. We could catch the first plane out. Be there by noon.” Sam types and clicks. “Just got to find a hotel.” 

“Yeah. It’s not gonna happen.”

Sam looks over his shoulder at Dean, question plain on his face. 

“You had me right up until ‘plane.’ I don’t fly.”

Sam smiles. “No one is asking you to fly. All you have to do is sit there and let the pilot do his job.” 

“Ha.” So, now Sam’s got jokes. “That's hilarious. Still not gonna happen. What's wrong with here? Your place is great.” 

“I haven't had a change of scenery in ... a long time.” 

“Then, we can go for a walk.” 

Sam tilts his head in that way girls do when they try to convince you of something. Like pouring on the cute is going to make you want to watch Bridget Jones instead of Predator. “Have you ever been on a plane?”

Dean may look like a sucker, but a sucker he is not. “No. That's how I'm gonna keep it.” 

“I used to fly every week, sometimes twice.” 

“Good for you, Sam.” 

“It's not that bad.” Sam shuts his laptop and looks Dean right in the face. “Look, are you thinking about college ball?”

“I'm not thinking about anything right now. That’s the beauty of movies.” 

“Okay. You know what? Another time.” He opens the screen and gets back to his typing.

“Not likely.” 

“I haven't been on a road trip in forever. We can just drive somewhere.” 

Dean mutes the TV. “You know, I'm not some kind of chick you have to wine and dine and take places.”

"Yeah, I think I noticed.” Sam grabs Dean’s crotch. “I want to go somewhere, and I would love it if you would come with me.”

“Yeah, well. I got homework and shit, so...” Dean scoots off the edge of the bed and goes into the bathroom.

His English teacher had assigned chapters for the long weekend. Not that he had any intention of reading them. He had started that book thinking it would be about baseball or food and it's not about either; just some whiny kid complaining about phonies. Whatever, dude. People are fake. Suck it up. 

When Dean comes back out, Sam is sitting on the side of his bed with the laptop open beside him. “So, you want me to take you home?” 

“You going to New York?”

“I don't know.” Sam’s hands are folded between his knees. 

“You wanna go, you should go.” Dean steps into his shorts. They’re pretty ripe. Flipping them is no longer going to cut it; these bad boys need to go in the wash. 

Sam stands and crosses the floor in a few broad steps. His hands slide down Dean’s arms. “I want to go with you, Dean. That was the point.”

Dean had known all along that it was the point. His inner jackass wouldn’t let him appreciate it. “You gonna let me drive?” 

“Do you have your license?” The look on Sam’s face makes it clear how awkward it is for him to be asking that question of the guy he’s fucking. 

He’s going to like the answer even less. “Got my license to ill.” 

“So that's a no?” Sam doesn’t even crack a smile. 

“I drive better than you.” Jody has made Dean do at least half the driving since his feet could reach the pedals.

“So, no.” 

“Whatever.”

 

*******

 

In the dim light of the bedside lamp, Sam smiles at Dean's attempt to stifle a yawn. His long lashes rest on his cheeks for a moment before his eyes pop open again.  

Sam chuckles. “You can go to sleep. You're not going to miss anything.” 

Dean nods and smacks his lips. “Yeah.”

Sam looks at his mouth with a more intense hunger than he’s suffered in a long time.

Dean rolls over, facing away and murmurs, “Night.”

He tenses, almost imperceptibly, when Sam attempts to make of him a cuddly, little spoon. It was worth a try.  Sam kisses Dean's neck and rolls over to shut off the light.


	18. Chapter 18

**SUNDAY**

Sam had laughed like a maniac when his boxers slid down Dean’s hips. The kid didn't find it quite as hilarious and Sam had agreed to toss his things into the laundry before they set out. Even though Dean is about to put his clean jeans back on, Sam folds them and his t-shirt. 18 years of a military upbringing die hard.

His blood runs cold as he picks up a frilly, pink thong between his thumb and forefinger. He stares at them, reeling as if he’s been punched in the gut. Biting his lip, he folds Dean’s boxers, rolls his socks together and places the panties on top like a coral-colored cherry. He hands Dean his clothes and retreats from the bedroom.

Sam is still worrying his lip as he holds out a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon. Dean accepts the breakfast but just stands there. “Want me to say something?”

 “No.”

 “I was at this party and this hot -”

 “Would you not? Please.”

 “I mean, it's not like we…”

 Sam drops the spatula into the pan and walks out of the kitchen.

He focuses all of his energy on packing his small Samsonite backpack when he senses Dean behind him. Sam looks over his shoulder to confirm that he's standing in the doorway. If a stranger were to walk in now, they'd think Sam is packing to walk out.

“Maybe this trip thing isn’t such a good idea.”

There’s no good reason those words should sting Sam all over like they do. “Why?” He braces himself to hear about Dean’s girlfriend since the kid is hell bent on talking about her.

“If you're going to spend the whole time pissed at me--”

“I'm not pissed at you,” Sam says through clenched teeth.

“Yeah, right.” 

“Honestly, I'm not.”

“You're telling me you're not mad right now.” Dean doesn’t even dare to approach him.

“I am.” Sam nods, easing the zipper shut. 

“I knew it.”

Sam turns to face Dean and slings his bag onto his shoulder. “I'm not angry with you.” 

Confusion is plain on Dean’s flawless face. 

Sam can only be peeved with himself for being this hurt. Exclusivity isn’t even a blip on their horizon. Dean likes girls, too. Sam hadn't expected such a blatant reminder of those facts, but it's good to be reminded before he gets in any further over his head.

Upset? Yes. At himself. Not Dean.

Still, the kid gives him a wide berth for the next hour or so.

Dean wanders into the kitchen while Sam is preparing snacks for the trip. He sidles up and wraps his arms so tight around Sam's chest that it takes his breath away for a moment. Sam taps his wrist. Dean loosens up a bit and presses his face into the center of Sam's back. “That girl -”

"Dean." Sam peels Dean's hands away. He doesn't want to hear it. Doesn't want to know. 

“She ain't got nothing on you, Sam. I mean..." Dean clears throat.

Sam turns around. The kid shuffles his feet and doesn’t meet Sam’s eyes. 

“It’s not important,” Sam says, although that isn't clear.

Dean looks relieved and that’s all that matters. “We good?” 

“Always.” Sam smiles and looks at Dean’s mouth. 

He wants to kiss him so badly; his body vibrates with it.

“Cool.” Dean nods and takes a step back. “I mean, we should just go and have a good time, right? Forget about ... everything else.” 

Sam licks his lips and nods. "Yeah. Just let me finish these up."

 

*******

am licks his lips and nods. "Yeah. Just let me finish these up."

 

*******

 

Dean bends over to get a better look at the scraped up car door. “What the hell happened here?”

“Oh. Someone…”

Dean raises his brow but doesn’t ask for further explanation. Once he's in the driver's seat, he adjusts the leg room, then reaches up and fixes the mirror. “We’ll be changing names when we move. Jody’ll just get me my license then.” 

He never tells anyone about their way of life. It’s weird telling Sam, but also kind of nice to have someone know something real about him for a change. “Buckle up, Sam. You’re about to see your baby do things you didn’t know she could.” 

Once you get past the initial douchery of the electric motor, the Prius is not bad. Dean gets her out on the road. She handles all right. Has a little pickup. She’s no GTO (which he knows, having once jacked one), but she’ll do. He glances over. “She got a name?” 

“The car?”

“How ‘bout Loretta? She seem like a Loretta to you? No, wait. She’s Japanese, right? Yoko.” He smiles and nods, petting the steering wheel. “Hey, Yoko. How you feeling today, sweetheart?” He grins at Sam who quirks a brow at him like he’s flirting with an inanimate object.

“Take a left here. We’re heading due east.”

In atonement for the thong, Dean will suck it up and deal with the fact that he doesn’t know where they’re going. That’s a lot easier to accept seeing that he’s driving and Sam’s the lowly navigator. “I guess I'm gonna have to get used to surprises... if I keep hanging out with you.” 

“Was it so bad at Charlie's?” 

“No. She's incredibly cool. Wouldn't tell me what she's making, but…” 

“Because it's a surprise.”

Dean chuckles. 

“Canton, Ohio.” Sam spills, although it still doesn’t tell Dean anything.

He and Jody have driven through Canton. It’s no New York. It is, however, a good little piece of driving from Kansas City, Missouri. “That's like--”

“Half a day.”

“At least.” Dean checks out of the window before pulling into the far left lane so he can start sailing. “What the hell's in Canton?”

“Pro-ball hall of fame.” 

Dean’s eyebrows raise. “Huh.”

He hadn’t expected Sam to just tell him. He also hadn’t expected it to be such a great idea. The grin spreads as he glances over at Sam who smiles at Dean’s approval. 

“How about we get some tunes going in here, Sammy?” Dean says and smacks Sam’s thigh like he owns the thing.

When a man’s behind the wheel, he might as well own the passengers, the car, the road and the whole goddamn country. 

“Listen, Dean. Seriously. Don’t call me Sammy. Please.” Sam scratches his forehead, face drawn and so solemn again.

But he taps the button on the stereo and watches Dean’s face to gauge his choice in music. No, thank you to easy listening jazz crap. Big fat frown to talk radio.

Eagles’ Desperado, almost from the beginning is a guilty pleasure. Sam starts to change it, but Dean catches his hand. 

“Seriously?” 

Dean shrugs. “Good song.” 

“Is it?” 

“Listen. Where I come from, driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole.” 

Sam rolls his eyes and doesn’t point out that it’s his car. He keeps quiet for most of the song, but at the tail end, he starts to speak. Dean holds up his hand for silence and croons along on that last line. “Before it’s tooooo late.” 

When the piano is done, he waves his hand, allowing the man to continue. 

Sam chuckles. “You are a ridiculous person. You know that?”

Dean not going to argue. 

“So, is your name really Dean?” Sam’s face is tight, like he’s scared of the answer. “You said, you get a new ID every town, so…” 

“Yeah. We just switch up the last name. Johnson, Jones, Smith, you know. Whatever generic thing she thinks of. Keep trying to get her to go with Clapton or Van Halen. Closest I ever got was Richards.”

“Jagger’s not exactly inconspicuous." 

“Guess not.” 

Sam’s voice drops so low Dean can't hear the question over the music. “How long do you usually stick around?” 

“No set pattern. That would sort of defeat the purpose. Longest we ever stayed anywhere was Barstow, for about a year. She had met this guy. Complete prick, but that's how she likes ‘em.” 

Sam thinks some more, leaving Dean to his Sabbath, before he says, “I like Dean. The name. It suits you.”

“Yeah?" He grins. "I like Sam. Sammy.”

“It’s what my ex called me…” 

Dean nods through the sudden, unexpected chill. “So, he’s ruined it for the rest of it?” 

“Afraid so.” Sam clears his throat and leans back against the headrest. “What about your birthday?” 

“We switch that up, too. Apparently, it’s the first thing he would look for.” 

“So, you could actually still be 15?”

“No,” Dean says and changes the station when the commercials start.

“How do you decide which one to celebrate?” 

“We don't. I got to memorize the new one every time, which is kind of a drag. You know, your dad gave me a cupcake. I don't understand why you two -” 

Sam gives a small, but final shake of his head. “Not going there, Dean.” 

Dean shrugs and bops his head along to the hip-hop on the radio. 

“When is it? Your real birthday.”

“Couple weeks ago. Day after the fake one this time.” Dean keeps his eyes on the road, so he doesn’t have to see what kind of face Sam is making.

His voice is quiet and sad sounding. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Not a big deal.” 

 

*******

At the gas station, Sam leans over to fill up the tank. He waves as a patrol car passes.

From behind, a hand slips between his legs, and by reflex, his back snaps straight. “Jesus, Dean.”

The hand remains firm against the center of his back, urging him to lean forward again. Flame licks right up the center of Sam’s chest as the other palm cups his groin. "Dean." 

The man at the bay in front of them glowers and climbs into his car. Dean stands on his tiptoes to nip Sam’s ear before chuckling and taking the passenger’s seat. Sam adjusts himself in his pants, gets in and shuts the door. There are a thousand ways to express this. “Dean, you can’t just -” 

“Check this out.” The plastic bag crinkles as Dean lines up its contents on the dashboard. “Slim Jims, white cheddar popcorn, Combos, which is a meal unto itself. A couple of cokes. And...” 

Dean smirks and waggles his eyebrows at a lifetime supply of Trojans. Sam tries not to cringe at the spread. It’s incredibly considerate of Dean to have brought two of everything, except that none of it is actual food. “You know I brought those wraps, right?”

“With the leftover tofu? Yeah. That's not going anywhere near my mouth again.” He peels back the plastic on one of the jerkies and offers Sam the first bite. “Made with real beef.”

And all kinds of other things that Sam refuses to put into his body. He turns away from the fake meat Dean tries to force between his lips. Eventually, Dean shrugs and chomps half of the thing himself. Then, he presents Sam with a pamphlet for a haunted house wax museum in Hannibal, Missouri, batting his wide, eager eyes. 

“You do know that it’s twelve hours to Canton.” 

“Just for like ten minutes. They got a serial killer’s exhibit. How can you say no to that?"

 

 *******  

Dean elbows his way to the front of the line, dances down the steps like Fred Astaire, his feet tapping out a rhythm as he hurries along after the tour guide. He glances back over his shoulder, once, with his tongue breaching a wide grin.

Sam chuckles and waves him on, content to bring up the rear behind a portly family in matching neon orange shirts. 

The air in the cellar is bone chilling. Despite the sign, Dean touches one of the statues. The guide clears her throat and he locks his hand with the other one behind his back. She carries on with her memorized spiel, leading them to the next exhibit. 

Bouncing on his toes and flapping his fingers, Dean raises his hand to ask what would be the fifth question in as many minutes. Sam covers his smile with his hand while the guide overlooks Dean completely. As advertised, she continues the tour into a room of Missouri-based serial killers. 

Here, Sam glides towards the front of the group for a better view. Dean looks over and nods. When the guide’s back is turned, his hand runs over Fay Copeland’s rifle and knocks the thing to the floor with a noisy clang. Sam puts a few inches between them, laughing to himself and shaking his head. 

As Dean stoops to pick up the weapon, the tour guide snatches it away. She adjusts it in the exhibit, then  scowls at Dean as if he had murdered five drifters instead of just making a little mess. 

They let the group move ahead of them and Sam slips his arm around Dean’s waist. He moves away again when the bright-orange clad mom turns with a disapproving glare. Dean clutches Sam close, nearly throwing him off balance. Sam huffs and offers the woman a tight, apologetic smile. 

Her eyes move down the line of their bodies, joined hip to thigh. She turns away and grips her son by both ears to keep him from peeking at them. Dean chuckles. Before they proceed to the next exhibit, he pokes the statue of Ray Copeland right in the chest. 

On their way to the car, Dean spins on his heel, walking backwards so he can face Sam and grinning like a much younger kid. “Dude, did you see the guts?” 

Sam grins, too. He had seen the guts. Mostly, though, he had seen Dean.

 

*******

Dean smacks Sam’s arm the moment he sees the sign. "Dude.” 

“We’re not making it to Canton, are we?” 

“Canton's not going anywhere.” 

So, they pull into the parking lot of the Largest Arcade in Missouri.

Dean stands in line for quarters while Sam runs to the bathroom. He’s got them by the time Sam comes out, and searches the dark, noisy room. Dean grins and creeps along the shadows so that he can pounce. From behind, he takes two handfuls of Sam’s insane chest and presses himself up against Sam’s ass. 

Sam spins and knocks him back. He grips Dean’s arm and drags him to a corner. “Hey. You need to knock that off. I’m not one of your little girlfriends.” 

Shock, along with Sam’s anger, slam into Dean like a flash of lightning. All this PDA shit is not something he's ever done with anyone else. He's a blue ribbon moron for thinking he could try it with Sam. He frees his arm and steps aside, blinking through the ache in his chest. 

“Dean.” 

Dean nods and goes to find something to shoot. In no time, Sam is at his side and it’s a good thing this gun isn’t real. There’s no telling what or who Dean would put a hole in if it was. 

Sam stands there like he’s just watching Dean play, but he murmurs, “What's between us is... it's private, okay?” 

“Yep. Got it.” The machine makes a loud series of beeps as Dean picks off fifteen mummies in a row and gets upgraded to zombies. 

“I'm sorry, I…” Sam touches Dean’s wrist.

He yanks away, aims and fires. “It's cool.” 

“I…” 

Dean rolls back his tense shoulders. This guy needs to shut up and fuck off. 

Sam whispers, “I like when you touch me. I … love it. I can't stand people watching. I don't ... It makes me uncomfortable.” 

“To be seen with me.” Dean mows down a line of zombies.

Behind those, an army of werewolves approaches.

“Come on, Dean. You know that's not it.” 

“Because of my age.” 

Sam hesitates. 

“Or you just don’t want people to know you're a fag?” 

Jackpot. That has the desired effect. Sam huffs, takes a step back and says, “Text me when you’re done.”

Dean doesn't watch him leave. He kills some kind of creepy cat-people and goes on murdering creatures until his right arm feels like it’s going to fall off. 

He wanders between the games for a while, but nothing else catches his eye. He buys himself a slice of pizza, chats up the girl behind the counter, half hoping Sam will see. She has on too much makeup, but it’s just something to do anyway. 

When he finally leaves the place, Sam is sitting on his hood reading some thick-ass book. “What is that, the bible?” 

Sam looks up and shows him the cover. In Search of Lost Time. 

“Any good?” 

“Yeah.” Sam nods to the arcade. “How was your ….” 

“Well, I’m apparently a professional level hunter of supernatural entities. So, if you ever need that, let me know.” 

“Yeah. I’ll do that.” Sam smiles. “You want to drive?” 

“Nah. You go ahead.”

 

*******

 

The roadside farmer’s market is Sam's idea. Maybe a little fruit will split the difference in their food preferences. While Sam picks out apples and pears, Dean meanders into the pumpkin patch. 

With his bag hanging from his forearm, Sam leans against a post and watches Dean strike up a conversation with an older gentleman in muddy overalls and a sun hat. Dean waves and Sam returns the gesture. After a while, he wanders back from the patch with his hands in his back pockets. 

“What was that?” 

“That’s Carl. He owns all this.” Dean indicates the property and the produce. “Hey, come here.” 

Sam follows. 

“What the hell is that?” 

There are handwritten prices, but no tags on the various bins. He picks up a vegetable and offers it to Dean. “Turnip, meet Dean.” 

“Is that nasty as it looks?”

Sam laughs. “It’s… kind of bland. You want to grab a few and I’ll cook ‘em when we get home… back… to my place.”

“Nah.” Dean drops it back into the bin. 

They skip the broccoli and cauliflower. Dean points to the next basket. 

Sam calls out each by name. “Beets. Parsnips. Those are squash. Those, too. Actually, the whole rest of this row.” 

“All squash?” Dean turns one over in his hands. 

“Yeah. There are at least thirty different kinds of squash. Technically, pumpkin is a cultivar of squash, as well.” 

Still holding the gourd, Dean looks up at him. “Do you think I'm stupid?” 

The question is so matter-of-fact that Sam’s mouth falls open. His hands rest on Dean’s shoulders. Carl, the farmer, is watching them, as well as, the woman behind the counter and he drops them again. What Sam really wants is to hug this kid and kiss his forehead and rock him. Instead, he steps back and leans forward to capture his eyes. “I think that your mother has had other things on her mind than cooking parsnips.” 

 

*******

 

“How confident are you in your driving?” 

Dean almost doesn’t bother to answer Sam’s question. His right hand is on the wheel, left elbow out of the window and a sweet cube of Asian pear in his mouth. A little silence would be just the thing right now. Sam talks a lot. “Completely confident. Why?” 

“So, I could... go to sleep and you'd be fine?” 

“Sure. You tired?” Dean opens his mouth for another piece of fruit. 

Sam feeds him the last bit, wipes off and folds Dean’s rusty Swiss Army Knife back together. “And if I were to do something... potentially distracting…” 

Dean looks over, brow raised. "Such as?" 

“It's a hypothetical question." 

"I told you, Sam. I'm a better driver than you are." To prove it, he weaves around the slowpoke in front of him and back into their lane, narrowly avoiding an oncoming pickup truck while Sam clutches the door handle.

"You're a more aggressive driver than I am, which is not the same thing." 

"I could drive with my eyes closed." 

"That does not instill confidence." 

"I'm kidding.” Dean smiles. It's entertaining working Sam up. “What do you got in mind?" 

"Just keep your eyes on the road." 

Dean had hoped, but hadn't dared to ask. The fact that he’s driving Sam’s car without a license is already surprising. When Sam’s hand comes for his fly, Dean sucks in his stomach and forces himself not to look down. 

The driver's seat hums as Dean slides back a few inches to make space. Sam chuckles, “Hands on the wheel.” 

Dean grips at 10 and 2.   

His lips fall open as Sam pulls him out and strokes with his left hand. Dean blows out a slow, calm rush of air, straightening the car when he notices that they are veering ever so slightly to the right. 

“You okay?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Dean answers breathless and eases his foot off the gas so that the slowpoke can overtake them.

They’re crawling down this two-lane highway at about 40 miles per hour. There’s hardly any other traffic, but Sam breathes the words warm into his ear, "I'm putting my life in your hands." 

That, right there, is hot as sin.

Sam unbuckles his seatbelt, spits into his palm and wraps it around Dean’s dick. 

Dean fights the desire to close his eyes and prove that claim he just made. He pants through the heat and building tension. Sam has the nerve to ask, “Is that good?” 

Dean swoons for a second. “Yeah.” 

He shakes his head to clear it and keeps his eyes on the road, even if all the blood in his body is elsewhere. 

Sam tucks his hair behind his ears and Dean’s mind goes on auto-pilot. Sam lowers his head, but doesn’t take him in, just kitten licks the tip and moans. “You know, if you eat a lot of fruit, you’ll get even sweeter.” 

“Is it sweet?” Dean slides his right hand through Sam’s hair, because there’s no way not to. 

“You taste so good,” Sam answers, winded, like he’s starving for it. 

Dean knows better. He’s tried his own cum and had it from a variety of other sources. It's like snot, but with none of snot's redeeming qualities. But he isn't going to debate about it while Sam is tonguing his slit, mining for the stuff.

“Jesus, Sam. Take it.” Dean's hips rise from the seat.

Sam pins him in place with those strong hands on his thighs. “Sh. I'm not going to bring you off.”

“What?!” Dean nearly drives off the road at that revelation.

Sam sits up and wipes his mouth with his thumb. “Until we get to the hotel.”

“You... “ Dean wills himself not to call Sam what he’s thinking. “This is payback, isn’t it?”

“I don't want anyone to get hurt.” 

“Look at me.” Dean frowns down at his rock hard, abandoned dick. “You little... big fucking tease.” 

He doesn’t have a choice but to take matters into his own hands. 

Sam catches his wrist. “Dean. You have to wait.” 

“Oh, fuck you.” He pulls his hand away. 

Sam wraps his palm around Dean’s neck and kneads hard. “It'll be worth it. I’ll make it worth it, I promise.” 

“Tease.” Tears pool in the corner of Dean’s eyes. 

“Just a few minutes, baby.” Sam leans over and coos into his ear, “Three more exits. I’m going to suck you so good. I can’t wait to get your pretty cock in my mouth. You going to wait for me, baby? Huh?” 

Burning alive, Dean’s head lolls forward. “You asshole.” 

 *******  

 

Sam asks Dean to wait in the car. He doesn’t say it’s because he doesn’t want the kid humping him while he’s checking in, but that is a deciding factor. 

He gets two room keys. Dean will like that. On his way out of the automatic doors, Sam sees Dean lean into the passenger side of a huge SUV. The driver’s legs hang out of the other side, back turned to Dean, so that the man must be oblivious to the kid trying to knab something from him. 

Lips pursed, stomach sunk with uncertainty whether to let the little delinquent get away with whatever he’s up to. Before Sam can decide how to handle the situation, Dean stands up and carries a cane around to the driver. The older gentleman smiles and ventures to climb down to his feet. Dean holds out his arm in an offer of support. Sam hurries across the parking lot, but the man shrinks back at his approach.

“It’s okay.” Dean pats his arm. “This is Sam. He’s my friend. Could probably carry you if you want. Sam, this is Dennis.” 

Sam nods a greeting and lets Dennis appraise him. His size can be intimidating for some people. 

“Dennis is riding on a pair of brand new hips. His nephew was supposed to meet him, but he got tied up at work. Good thing we’re here, right? You want this sasquatch to lug you in there? ‘Cause he can do it. Or you can hop up on his back.” 

Sam frowns, is neither bigfoot nor pack mule. Thankfully, the old man declines the piggy back ride. However, he accepts Dean’s offer to carry his luggage.

The minute they step through the double doors, Dean gawks at Sam. His mouth is wide open as he takes in the chandelier and the sunken sitting area in the lobby. The receptionist calls one of her associates to assist Dennis the rest of the way.   

The old man shakes Dean’s hand and offers him a wad of cash. The kid steps back, both hands raised. “No way, man. Just helping out.” 

Dennis nods at Dean and turns his nose up at Sam.

In the elevator, the kid folds his arms over his chest and watches the numbers light up on the overhead display. “You ever gonna stop looking at me?” 

“Not likely.” 

By some miracle, Sam makes himself wait until the hotel room door clicks shut behind them before he pins Dean to it. He breathes him in, aching to devour every inch of him. Sam leans in close and Dean turns aside. 

Sam whispers, “Let me kiss you.” 

The kid closes his eyes and shakes his head. Sam swallows, opens Dean's button and presses his nose against his cheek. “Please.” 

“No.” Dean shoves him away.

“Why?” 

“I don’t fucking want to.” He storms across the room and empties balled up dollar bills from his pockets onto the desk.

Sam keeps himself pressed against the door to keep from marching over there and making a bigger nuisance of himself. He sucks his lower lip into his mouth and bites down hard. 

Dean smooths the bills out as flat as they’ll go. “Fifty-six bucks. It’s what I got. Will that cover half?” 

“This one’s on me.” Sam tries to smile, but his senses are still reeling. 

“I need to contribute.” 

“No, you don’t.” For reasons unbeknownst to him, Sam is on the verge of tears. He wants to fall on his knees and beg, although he doesn’t know for what. Love? Absolution? A kiss?

“You can’t just pay for everything.” 

“I want to.” 

Dean’s jaw clenches. “I’ll leave this here. You take it or the maid will.” He marches past Sam and barricades himself in the bathroom.

Sam runs a hand through his hair and sits on the edge of the bed, breath shaky. 

Twenty minutes later, when Dean still hasn’t reemerged, Sam knocks on the door. “I’ve got to go take care of something. I left your room key on the desk.” 

There’s no answer, so Sam shakes his head and leaves. 

 

*******

 

Dean doesn’t respond to the knock on the door. Sam’ll figure it out or he won’t. Eventually, the knob turns and he enters, fricking humongous from this angle. 

“Have you been in here the whole time?” 

“Fell asleep.” Dean licks the dried slobber from the side of his mouth. 

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” Sam sits on the side of the tub.

“You’re giving me whiplash, dude.” 

Sam cocks his head to the side like a confused puppy. 

“First, you tell me not to touch you. Then, you fucking blow me in the car, but you don’t let me come.” 

“Dean.” Sam offers his hand to help him up. 

Dean treats it like he would a cobra. 

“Oral sex in the car is a bad idea. It was stupid of me to have started and I’m sorry.” 

Dean scoffs. It wouldn’t have been a bad idea if he would have just finished. 

“Secondly, I never asked you not to touch me. I would never… I asked you to be more discreet in public.” 

“You want me to be scared?” 

“I want you to be wise and realize that not everyone is so highly evolved as you are. Now, will you, please, come out of the bathtub and let me…” Sam shakes his head and laughs. “Just come on.” 

Dean sulks for a few minutes longer, before he hoists himself up with a groan. His neck is never going to be right again. He rubs it with both hands and sighs as he drags himself into the suite. 

He hadn’t even given himself a proper chance to appreciate how awesome this place is. It’s more of an apartment than a hotel room. He trudges through the bedroom into the living room area to find Sam standing there with a Happy Birthday balloon in his hand. Wrapped presents litter the whole place. 

“What’d you do, rob Santa Claus?” 

“You’ll be happy to know that I have now been inside of a Walmart. You need to start on that end.” Sam points to the far side of the sofa. “I didn’t know what to get.” 

“So you cleaned out the fucking store?” Dean should storm out of the room or toss these things out of the window, but he’s too confused to even budge. “What the hell is this?” 

“It’s for your birthday. For every one I’ve missed.” Sam lets the balloon float to the ceiling so he can hand Dean the first present. 

The wrapping paper crinkles in his hand. There are footballs and field goals on all of them. It’s too surreal,  like he’s stepped into someone else’s life for a moment or into a dream he might have had when he was a little kid. 

“You going to open it?” 

So he opens it and holds up the swimming trunks. They have octopuses (octopi?) all over. 

“I don’t know if you saw that there’s a pool. I know you didn’t bring yours because we weren’t planning to go anywhere.” 

Dean doesn’t own any trunks. Well, he does now, but he still doesn’t know how to swim. 

“You wouldn’t believe how long I stood in front of those tight little speedos. That’s why I got you tighty whities. Hope you don’t mind. Actually they’re black. But your underwear are on their last thread and I....” Sam’s face flushes and he clamps his mouth shut. 

Dean’s chest warms at the color of Sam’s cheeks. He puts the swim shorts on the table and Sam folds them. It seems to be a habit of his. 

The next package contains blue goggles. The next one is blue flippers. Sam smiles and shrugs. “Merman fetish.”

There’s a green, long sleeve t-shirt and a pair of black jeans. 

“You’re going to look amazing in that.” 

The smallest box has the coolest multi-tool that Dean has ever seen. Sam explains, “Yours is all dull. How long have you had that thing?” 

Dean doesn’t tell him that he had pinched it off an old guy in a homeless shelter a few years back. That guy could have had it in Vietnam, for all Dean knows. 

This thing Sam bought looks like it was designed for space exploration. The box says it has 19 functions. Dean plays with it for a full five minutes before putting it on the table. 

He tears the paper off of, but doesn’t even open, the box for the Nintendo 3DS or for the game Resident Evil. 

“The people at the store told me this is good, if you like, you know, killing things.” 

There’s an electric toothbrush, like Sam’s but green instead of blue. And an identical Norelco shaving kit. 

“I saw you admiring mine this morning, so, I thought --” 

This is the point when Dean realizes that this is actually happening. There are opened presents, and as of yet unopened ones, a growing pile of wrapping paper and it's all for him. He bites his lip and looks at Sam. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling, because it's new. Maybe there isn’t even a word for it. There are words in his throat that won’t form and emotions bubbling under his skin and boiling in his belly. All he can do is blink at Sam. 

“I know you don’t…” Sam huffs and licks his lips. “You are going to have to get used to me doing things for you. It’s not going to stop. And… repaying me? It’s not about that. You accept and you’re repaying me.”

Dean’s breath hitches. He shakes his head and closes his eyes. It’s too much. He doesn’t open them when Sam’s hands are on his face or on his waist. He doesn’t watch Sam open his pants or wrap his warm lips around him. Dean doesn’t open his eyes or even dare touch his shoulder or his hair. 

It’s not sex, what Sam’s doing to him. It’s too gentle, too tender. It’s all whisper-soft and apple-sweet. Dean doesn’t think he can cum from it - until he does. But it’s not an orgasm. It’s something else. It’s this feeling that swells his heart up, like the Grinch, three four five sizes too big. So big, it aches in his chest. And when he can manages to speak again, it’s only to breathe the word, “Sam.”

 

*******

 

Dean shines in the grey satin suit with the slim black tie over the emerald green button down shirt that brings out his eyes. The shoes are too small and it’s not yet cold enough for the winter coat. He still looks like something out of a daydream. 

There’s only ice cream on the dessert menu and Dean mumbles, “Did you plan this?” 

"I swear, I didn’t.” Sam chuckles, honoring the almost complete silence in which they had eaten their steak dinner.

By the time they’re back on the road, the sun is setting. Sam pulls off on the shoulder right outside of Grafton. There’s a bridge overlooking the point where the Mississippi and the Illinois Rivers meet. 

They don’t speak - have hardly said a word since this afternoon. Instead, they’ve been floating around each other in a dance of cautious courtesy, as if there’s a thin thread between them that will break if either speaks or treads too loudly. 

Dean shuts the car door, walks onto the bridge and clasps his hands on the railing. Sam approaches him as if Dean were a feral animal that could rip him apart. He wraps his arms around the boy’s arms and chest and places a kiss on the side of his neck, waiting to be pushed away.

 

*** 

 

Dean has been going at this all wrong. Kissing Sam has become this huge deal, not because it is one, but because he’s made it into one. Still, the thought of it sets off the circus in his gut. Some people say butterflies. Dean never had butterflies and this is way more activity than a swarm of bugs. 

The air around them crackles. Sam’s cologne is making him dizzy. Or maybe Sam is holding him so tight it's choking the life out of him. Dean takes a deep breath to be sure he still can. 

Sam’s chin rests on his shoulder. Dean squirms and Sam drops his arms, lets him go. “Do you want to keep moving?” 

Now.

Dean turns, grabs a fistful of Sam’s shirt, and pulls him down for a proper plundering. Before their lips meet Sam draws back. Dean’s heart thunders in his chest. 

Fucking calm down.

Sam smiles and takes Dean’s face between his huge, hot hands. Their lips brush and linger for only the sweetest moment before Sam searches his eyes and breathes the word, “Wow.”

He must be talking about the fucking sparks, which means he could feel them, too. Sam shivers, hands on Dean’s neck. People write songs and poetry, they compose symphonies, about moments like this. Then they cut off their ears and jump off of bridges when those moments are over. 

Dean steps back. His chest is still hot, stampede still going strong in his stomach. He shifts his weight on his feet. “Need to piss.” 

He stumbles into the woods and wipes his hand over his mouth. Not wiping it away. Rubbing it in. Holding it there. Shutting his eyes. Soaking in it. Replaying the kiss over and over until he’s soft and hard with it. 

He huffs out a breath and looks at the water before he leans back against a tree and slides to the ground. 

MInutes later, Sam settles beside him - radiating warmth like a space heater. His hand hovers over for a second before he claims Dean’s fingers - twining them together like this day hasn’t already been chick-flicky enough. Dean tells himself, he's doing it for Sam. He'd never hold hands like this or bask in the blood-orange sun if it weren't for Sam. Once it’s set, he gets up and walks back to the car. 

 

 *******  

 

Back at the hotel, there is talk of swimming but no energy to follow through. There is also the crown jewel of Sam's gifts to unwrap. Sam holds his hands over Dean’s eyes and leads him to the table in the kitchenette. Sam brings the open box to Dean's nose and he smiles, opens his eyes and the grin grows. 

“Wait here while I put this in the oven.”

“We have an oven? Jody and me have stayed in apartments that didn't have an oven.” 

Sam sets the pie to bake at 250 degrees. Then, he turns his full attention on the remarkably handsome, impeccably dressed young man he has all to himself. “Is this your first time in a suit?” 

“Always wear one to court. This is the first one that's mine.” 

Sam’s hands run down his arms. “It's yours. And you won't be wearing it to court.” 

“Ok, Dad.” Dean smirks, sarcastic cockiness resurfacing after the long quiet of the evening. 

Sam slides the jacket from Dean’s shoulders and hangs it over the back of a chair. Then, he takes a fistful of the tie and drags Dean’s mouth to his. The kid’s eyes widen a little, but he doesn’t resist Sam licks along the seam of his lips. He opens like the Pearly Gates and Sam enters with all the reverence Dean deserves. Their tongues meet in the space between them and for a moment, Dean grapples for control of the kiss. Sam tightens his grip on the tie, pulling the kid even closer to his chest. After a moment, Dean relinquishes. 

That's all Sam wants in this moment: this boy, pliant and willing. Sam sucks on his lush lower lip, nibbles it and then lets go. He loosens Dean’s tie, though not all the way. Releases each button on his shirt, as well as the pants. The zipper, he leaves in place. He smooths a hand down his ribs, reveling in Dean’s soft skin over firm, lean muscle and the stilted inhalations he’s trying not to make. Sam has a deep breath and steps back to survey his masterpiece. 

Dean closes his mouth to swallow and it parts again. Sam opens his own pants, tilts his head to the side, breath catching in his throat as it dawns on him how very much he wants to fuck this kid right now. 

He spins a chair from the table and sits. Dean blinks but doesn’t move. Sam pulls himself out and watches Dean’s eyes darken at the sight of his arousal. He licks his lips and Sam chuckles. He wants to, but he won’t. Not until Dean asks him for it. 

Sam licks his hand and strokes himself while he imagines entering that mouth with his thumb first and then two of his fingers. He’d make Dean get them nice and wet while his other hand finished getting those pants around his knees. Sam would lean him over this table and finger him until he begged for Sam’s cock. 

He would take his time and make them both crazy. But when he finally did slide into that heat - nice and steady - he would make Dean love it, make it so he never wanted Sam to stop.

The kid’s new pants are tented and stained now. All for Sam. It’s beautiful. He’s beautiful and Sam wants inside of him so bad, he groans. 

With his left hand, he beckons. Dean sways on his feet for a moment before stepping between Sam’s knees trembling. 

Stroking himself faster, Sam wraps an arm around Dean’s thigh and drags him closer. He presses his lips to the boy’s quivering stomach. kisses, tongues his navel. Dean shudders and Sam does it again. He sucks sweetly on Dean’s salty skin and then hard enough to stain him. Sam comes like that: tremors racking his body as he sucks his mark over Dean’s hipbone. 

 

*** 

 

Warm, homemade apple pie forked from the pan, canned laughter courtesy of Sanford and Son, Dean’s head on Sam's shoulder, his hand tucked between Dean’s thighs. For once, everything is right with the world.


	19. Chapter 19

**MONDAY**

 

Dean’s eyes flutter open to Sam: feather-soft like he’s been airbrushed by angels, hair all over the pillow and hanging in his face, pink mouth parted, breathing slow and deep. He closes his eyes again and soaks up the warmth pouring off of him. Always so fucking warm.

The hand on Dean’s chest is hot. So is Sam's legs sprawled over his, everywhere their skin touches is clammy and sweat-stuck together even though the blankets are on the floor. The whole thing is so cozy and familiar that an air raid siren blares in Dean’s mind _: Back away. Too close._

It's solid advice, he just can't follow it. He wipes the hair from Sam’s forehead, traces his cheekbone with a fingertip, and inhales the last traces of cologne as it blends with musk. Sam stirs and Dean kisses his smile. “Sleep good?”

Sam’s answer is a low hum that Dean wants to curl up in and die. He nudges Sam onto his back, crawls onto his wide chest, slides down, rubbing himself over Sam’s wood. He nuzzles Sam’s pit for the scent of him, then makes his way south to where it’s sharper still.

Sam chuckles awake and grabs both sides of Dean’s head just before he takes a mouthful of his half-hard dick. “Hey. Wait. I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Aw. You fucking spoilsport.” Dean rolls over onto his back and grabs himself.

“Good morning to you, too. I’ll be right back.”

Sam dances to the can, picking up his feet as if the tiles are burning him, although they’re probably ice-cold. While he’s in the can, his cell rings.

Clock reports: 5:13 AM. Dean scratches his lip and eyeballs Sam’s phone. His self-control is good, but it’s not that good. He crawls over and peeks - UNKNOWN.

By the time Sam gets back, it has stopped, and Dean has to go.

It rings again while he’s pissing. He tries not to hear - doesn’t want to be like that - but it’s a small space.

“Would you stop, please?” Sam answers with his voice low.

That’s no big deal; he's a quiet guy. Dean ignores the twinge in his chest and flushes the toilet.

The phone is laying right back where it was when he left. “So, I ruined your plans; you decide what we do today.”

Sam sits on the edge of the bed with his shoulders slumped like he’s still tired. His spine straightens with a deep breath, and he holds his hands out for Dean and captures him between his thighs. “You didn’t ruin my plans. You made this the best weekend of my life.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m not kidding.”

“Then, you need to get out more,” Dean says, although he can’t think of a better one himself. “So, what are we gonna do?”

“Shower, ‘cause you stink.”

Dean confirms that remark with a sniff of his pits. Sam clamps his mouth around his right nipple anyway, swirls his tongue and plays with Dean's balls until his knees buckle. “Shit.”

Sam chuckles and keeps him from toppling over. Dean will take to his grave how much he loves that huge hand on his back like Sam owns him. The fingers of Sam’s other hand poke his hip, pointing out the huge dark hickey he made last night. “Damn.”

“Will your girl be angry?”

Dean is about to correct him, but it’s a perfect cover. It’s a lifeline. If Sam thinks he’s just another lay, let him. It’s safer that way. Dean shakes his head, no.

“Good.” Sam kisses the spot and pulls the stack of tourist brochures from the bedside table.

Dean slides onto the bed behind him, close enough to hump his ass while Sam thumbs through the leaflets. Sam’s palm closes around his thigh. “Who needs a puppy?”

“Funny.” Dean clasps his arms around him.

His hands roam over Sam’s lower abs, dick stiffening as it slots up between his bare cheeks.

“All right there, Fido.”

“Fuck you.” Dean bites his shoulder.

“You clearly want to.”

Dean smiles against Sam’s shoulder and sidles up closer. Fuck these underwear Sam gave him. He slips himself through the escape hatch and into Sam’s ass.

“You horny little rabbit.”

Dean laughs at that, but doesn’t stop grinding. He’s getting close - muscles tightening, heart pounding in his ear.

“Come on, then.” Sam tosses the pamphlets on the floor and grabs the lube.

His phone lights up instead of ringing this time. It could be a mistake that Sam knocks it on the floor. When Dean leans to pick it up, Sam catches his arm, gives him the lube and prostrates himself over the side of the mattress.

“Fuck.” Dean crawls over him to grab a rubber from his table.

Sam snickers and waits while Dean kicks off his briefs. Dean squirts the goop down Sam’s crack, over his own dick and wherever else it lands.

“So messy.” Sam peeks over his shoulder with a grin.

Dean smacks his ass. “Shut up. Do you need--”

“No. Go ahead. Just take it easy.”

Dean bends his knees to align himself in a somewhat awkward position, but he’s not going to complain when Sam is laid out like this. He holds his breath and presses his tip to Sam’s hole. “Sam, I’m gonna…”

“No. You’re not.” Sam reaches back for a handful of Dean’s ass. “You’re gonna fuck me, right, baby boy? Don’t you want to come inside me?”

“Oh, God.” A wave of pleasure washes hot over him.

He’s already come, at least a little. This is not a common problem for Dean. It’s not like this is his first time or something. It doesn’t matter. With Sam, all bets are off.

Dean pants like a racehorse and gets the head of his dick in before he falls apart, shuddering, moaning on the verge of bursting into a thousand pieces.

“It’s all right, baby boy. You feel so good.”

Dean whines and drops himself onto Sam’s back. He loves/hates Sam’s new pet name. He stays there, through the aftershocks, half in and half out of him. Sam cranes his neck for a kiss.

Dean lets it happen, then he pushes off and peels off the rubber. “Fuck.”

“Hey.” Sam rolls over, dick limp.

Dean shakes his head and stalks into the bathroom. He starts the shower and yanks the curtain shut.

 

***

 

Dean's shoulders are tense, but he doesn’t protest when Sam kisses his neck then soaps his back. “I don’t think I have any fluid left in my body right now.”

He leans his head forward under the spray. “Is that your guy that keeps calling?”

“You’re my guy.”

Sam ignores Dean’s silence and the barb it leaves in his chest. He washes him like he'd planned to do. It was a stupid outburst but at least Dean doesn’t refute him.

Sam scrubs Dean's hair, his neck, both arms and under them. Dean laughs and knocks back his hips at that. Sam smiles and kisses his cheek over his shoulder, washes his chest and slathers his cock.

A bump under his scrotum catches Sam's attention. “Dean, what is this?”

He slips to his knees to have a look.

“Smooth.” Dean slicks back Sam’s hair. “I’m fast but I’m not that fast.”

Sam’s fingers remain in the same spot so he can examine. Dean nudges his hand aside and checks himself. “What the hell is that?"

He widens his stance and leans forward as if he could see his own perineum.

“Let me look.” Sam says.

“What the fuck? What the fuck, Sam?”

Sam confirms his suspicion. “Okay. Listen. Don’t freak out.”

“What the fuck?” Dean bends over and tries to look again.

“You have a tick.”

“Aw, fuck.” With his arms flailing, he stumbles backward out of the shower and rips the shower curtain from the rod.

It envelopes him from head to toe as he careens to the floor, still shouting. Sam shakes his head, turns off the water and watches Dean peel himself from the vinyl. His feet slip on the tile, and he falls again on his way through the bathroom door.

Sam chuckles, dries himself and wraps the towel around his waist. Dean, curled in a wet, fetal ball on the bed, peers up at Sam. “How long?”

Sam sits on the edge of the bed and wipes water from Dean’s shoulder. “You’re gonna be fine. You just need to let me take it off.”

“Don’t try to bullshit me, Sam. I know people die from this shit.”

“Nobody ever died from a tick bite, Dean.” He stands to remove his towel and dabs it gently over Dean’s goosebumped skin.

Dean buries his face in the pillow.

“You might need to see a doctor, get some antibiotics, but you’re going to be fine.” Sam picks up the phone and calls down to the front desk for a first aid kit.

His fingers creep over Dean’s scalp and behind his ears, as much to comfort him as to complete the inspection. “Will you check me, too?”

Dean sits up. “There is a fucking tick on my dick, and you act like -”

“It’s not a problem. Okay?” Sam runs a knuckle over his cheek before he bows his head, offering himself. “Start at the top. Anything feels weird, you check it out.”

Dean sighs, then kneels and runs his fingers over Sam’s scalp. Sam closes his eyes and makes every inch of himself available.

By the time the knock comes, they’re writhing together on the bed. Sam clears his throat and extricates himself. He whips the towel back around himself, parts the door enough to accept the kit and say thank you.

An hour later, as Sam tucks his shirt into his pants, he says, “You should let me take you to a doctor.”

Dean scratches his crotch. “I’d rather die.”

 

***

 

Dean rolls his eyes and gripes as he trudges behind Sam up the gangplank to the steamboat, Aunt Polly. “Remind me to never let you pick again.”

But he doesn't complain about the batter-fried catfish. He moans around the first bite so loudly that it earns him a few spectators. Then he orders another filet and drinks about 4 cups of iced tea. The okra he slides to the side of his plate for Sam.

During the show, Dean shushes Sam, not once, but on three separate occasions. He laughs before and louder than anyone else. When the Mark Twain impersonator is finished, he walks right up to the guy and talks for fifteen minutes before Twain glances at Sam for a rescue.

Sam steps beside Dean and shakes the actor’s hand. The man slips away, and Sam smiles. “We dock in ten minutes. I take it you enjoyed this.”

Dean shrugs. “It was okay. I pick the next thing.”

“No, you don't.”

His mouth falls open then shuts. If they were in private, Sam would kiss him.

“The family who owns this boat have something else I want to show you.”

 

***

 

Dean wraps his arms around himself and takes useless, deep, calming breaths.

"How high up are we?" Sam asks,  watching the pilot adjust the ropes.

“‘Bout fifty feet.”

Dean moves to the middle of the basket just as his phone buzzes with a message from Jo.

JW: Hey. How’s your weekend going?

DW: Mostly good. Crap right now. You?

JW: Bad time?

DW: Not the best. I’ll see you tomorrow.

JW: K

The guy tosses another sandbag overboard. Dean flinches when he pulls the lever that blasts unholy fire belching up into the balloon.

“You should try to relax and enjoy it.” Sam grins.

Dean would deck him but it might make the whole thing rock. “This is basically a plane without the wings.”

“It’s nothing like a plane.”

“If mankind was meant to fly, we’d have feathers.”

The basket lurches and Dean bites his lip to keep from crying out. Sam, that asshole, leans over the side and waves at the idiots on the ground who are waiting to do this next.

 

***

Back on the precious earth, traveling the way nature intended, Dean scoots back and forth across the upholstery of the passenger seat. It doesn’t help, so, he takes matters in hand and scratches like hell. He shudders just thinking of that thing sucking the blood from his ball sac. He could spend the rest of his life ridding the world of evil shit like that. Exterminator. That's a job Dean could do.

Sam smirks. “You okay over there?”

“Shut up." Dean hikes his foot on the dashboard to get a good angle and digs into it. “Son of a bitch.”

“You want to take a swim when we get back? Might be soothing.”

“You making fun of me?"

“Not at all,” Sam says, but he’s fighting laughter.

“Bitch.”

Sam shakes his head. "Jerk."

Five minutes later, they pass a sign, and Dean’s head whips around to be sure he read it right. "Pull over!"

Sam eases on the gas. "What?"

"Ah, you missed it. Now, you gotta turn around."

"What is it?"

Dean rubs his hands together. "Trust me. Turn around."

 

***

 

Dean’s eyes light up as he points at the stuffed buffalo, all the many antlers and the antique shotguns. The decorators have crammed in every item of kitschy cowboy paraphernalia that could be mounted on the rough-hewn walls of a western themed restaurant/shooting range/karaoke bar.

Sam tries to unwrinkle his nose and return the hostess’ smile. She’s dressed like Annie Oakley, complete with holster and 6-shooter, possibly loaded. Sam scratches his jaw. The word 'reluctant' does not cover how he feels about this place.

The second they’re seated, Dean hops up and goes to chat with the bartender, maybe trying to sweet talk his way into some alcohol. Dean returns with a karaoke report: it doesn't start until 9:00.

Sam consults with his watch and his stomach sinks. That means Dean expects to stay here for at least another 90 minutes.

“I’m gonna go talk to Larry.” Dean nods towards the billiards tables.

Larry turns out to be the mechanical bull. When the things starts, Dean’s body undulates in a gentle roll and Sam searches the room before he adjusts his pants. It's that hot. But it takes no time at all for him to cover his mouth and look away from Dean’s body jerking back and forth, his neck appearing on the verge of snapping.

Sam makes the mistake of peeking at other patrons whose eyes and mouths are wide in the terror. When Sam looks again, Dean’s hand is in the air as he’s whipped about like a rag doll. Sam holds his breath, winces and waits for the kid to go flying and crashing to the mat again any moment.

Every time Dean is thrown, he bounces up with both hands raised, like he’s defeated the bull. The whole bar cheers and claps - probably because Dean spends five minutes before every round beating his chest and prancing around the ring.

After the third toss, he staggers back to the table with a drunkard's grin. Sam slides a root beer across the table. "29 seconds. That's probably a world record."

Dean leans in to whisper, "Judge me if you want. It helps with the itching." He winks, drains his drink and slams it on the table. “Since you’re paying, let’s shoot.”

Sam sighs and starts to stand.

“Bring your drink.” Dean sticks his nose in it. “What is this? Sprite?”

“Seltzer water. You want some?”

Sam might as well have said lighter fluid. “Jesus, Sam. You’re killing me. The least you could do is drink for the both of us.” He raises his hand to show off the cowboy hat stamped onto the back which prohibits him from ordering anything harder than A&W.

Sam sinks all ten of his bullets in the target’s head or chest. He’s been shooting since he could hold a weapon. His father saw to that.

Dean nods and huffs his approval. Then, he takes the rifle. “You know what this is?”

“Winchester 1894.”

Dean’s expression sends an inexplicable flush of pride through Sam, as if he lives to impress this kid.

Dean lines up his sight and shoots a round through every one of Sam’s marks. He laughs at Sam’s flustered reaction and leaves the range. “I'm going back on Larry.”

This time, as Dean swaggers across the room, Sam’s not the only one watching. There's a burly, thick-necked trucker type who tilts his head to check out Dean’s ass. It sets off a flare in Sam’s chest. _What was Dean's motto?_ _People are allowed to look._

As soon as they make the announcement for karaoke, Dean slides out of the booth, grinning and returns with a laminated song list. “I signed you up.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Come on.”

“Not… ever.” Sam sips his drink.

Dean folds an entire mozzarella stick into his mouth and asks around it, “Dare me to sing Dolly Parton?”

“I'm not daring you to do anything.”

The kid hoots and claps for every single awful singer that takes the stage and he eats like it’s the Last Supper. When the DJ calls ‘Dean Bon Jovi,' his smile grows impossibly bright. He leans over. “Last chance. Any requests?”

“Don't embarrass me.”

He laughs on his way up, peels the mic out of the clip and points a finger at their waitress. “This one goes out to Sherry, y'all. Tip her extra. She's beautiful. And she’s got two little kids to put through college.”

Dean doesn’t just sing Donna Summer’s ‘She Works Hard For the Money,’ he prances across the stage, dancing in a way that would make Mick Jagger proud or jealous or sick to his stomach. Sam covers his face with both hands, but he peeks between the fingers and can’t stop smiling.

When the song ends, he’s just another one of Dean’s adoring fans. The kid struts back to the table, nodding at the men who clap him on the back. He winks at grown women who leer like they’re thinking of tossing their panties. He slides into the booth across from Sam and raises his brow, awaiting critique.

“You are an exceptionally bad singer. Like, painful.”

Dean throws his head back and laughs. Then he sucks down the last of his potato skins.

There are only nine people on rotation, which means an hour later, Dean is up again. His second song is a rousing massacre of Sinatra’s ‘My Way.’ For that, he earns a standing ovation from the drunks at the bar.

When he gets up for his third round, Sam announces, “I’m getting pretty tired.”

He’s also fed up with the muscle-head ogling Dean. The kid doesn’t notice or at least, he hasn’t acknowledged the guy in any way. Likely he's aware and ignoring, but if that’s the case, how can he stand it? Then again, Dean doesn’t mind being the center of attention.

“Last one.”

He climbs onto the stage and steps over the microphone stand so that it hangs between his legs. “I wanted to get my buddy up to sing with me. He’s getting sleepy, so we’re about to be out of here. Sammy, this one’s for you.”

The singing is as bad as ever, but the way he moves while he screeches Foreigner’s ‘Hot Blooded’ gets Sam hot, and makes him nervous, and gives him new understanding for why Elvis infuriated people. Dean is more or less fucking the microphone stand.

Sam empties his seltzer, pays their waitress and tries not to watch the mouth breather salivating over Dean’s antics. More than anything, Sam wants to yank that kid from the stage and put him in a freaking burqa.

The place erupts in foot stomps, cat calls, and thunderous applause. Dean soaks it in and bows at the waist, then he speaks into the microphone while looking at Sam. “Going to use the can.”

His audience laughs at the announcement. The guy at the bar doesn’t wait a full two seconds before he stands and stalks toward the bathroom behind Dean.

Sam’s heart beats out of his chest. He stands and moves in that direction, so wound up that the small hand on his shoulder startles him. The look on his face startles the waitress; she jumps back. He apologizes. She apologizes. Sam looks over his shoulder in time to see the bathroom door closing.

“Your change.”

“Keep it.” He turns and sprints toward the bathroom, so narrowly focused that he knocks a tray of drinks out of another server’s hands.

 

***

 

Dean doesn’t even look up at the thick-necked, pro-wrestling-looking mother fucker who’s been watching him all night like Dean was a horse he had put his entire paycheck on. People have been calling him Gunner.

Dean gives his junk one last scratch and zips up his pants. “Help you, dude?”

Gunner takes a step forward. The guy is 6’2” 250 lbs, easy. “Nobody gives a shit what you do elsewhere. We don’t allow that faggotry here. I want your word that you and your ‘buddy’ won’t come back here or we’re gonna have a problem.”

“You're gonna wanna back the fuck up off me.” Dean’s heart beats triple time against his ribs.

If the whole thing had been happening in slow motion, Dean could say he saw the sucker punch coming straight for his temple, but he didn’t see it. The air changes before some shit’s about to go down. Dean has had enough shit go down that he has a sixth sense for it.

It’s not like the Matrix or anything. He just knows it’s coming and dodges. Gunner’s fist glances off the back of Dean’s head before he jabs the fucker in the throat and gouges his eyes. The Marx brothers make that shit look funny, but Gunner ain’t laughing.

Dean’s not sticking around to ask how it feels either. He leaves the bathroom, walking fast, praying Sam is near the exit. Turns out, Sam is right outside the door, smelling like he took a beer bath, and breathing hard. Dean walks right into his wet shirt. Sam’s arms close around him. “You all right?”

“Awesome. Let’s go.”

They are almost through the saloon doors when a voice behind them growls, “Chris. Stop them!”

The bouncer steps in front of Sam. He’s every bit as tall and maybe twice as wide, the kind of guy you want on your defensive line - not in your face. Dean swears and looks back over his shoulder as Gunner barrels over, squinting. “This little fairy jumped me and stole my wallet.”

“Ain’t what happened, Chris.” Dean tries to reason with the bouncer.

“How long I been coming here? Check him.” Gunner puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder.

Dean puts Gunner on his back. Now, his heart is on overdrive, and everything else is in slow motion.

Chris makes a move, but Sam would make a pretty good blocker, too. Somebody grabs Dean and he’s fighting blind as Sam takes a hit to the gut. Someone, not previously involved, jumps onto Sam's back. He staggers forward just as Dean is struck in the jaw. It stuns the hell out of him. His swing connects, though. A few guys gang up on Dean. He kicks one of them in the knee. That guy yelps and crashes forward. Out of the corner of his eye, a chair comes down over Sam’s shoulders. Unlike on television, it does not burst into splinters. It looks like it hurts. Sam slumps forward but doesn’t go down. A fist connects with Dean’s proud smile. He stumbles back a few steps. Hands close around his throat. A waitress cracks someone over the skull with a bottle of beer. Gasping for air, Dean kicks back, peels at the fingers on his windpipe. He steps back and pins the person behind on him against the wall. Nothing works. His vision starts to blur.

Then, the hands are off his neck. He gulps in a breath, clutching his aching throat. Dean gets in two solid kicks to whoever is on the floor before Sam drags him out of the door.

Adrenaline rushing through him like a narcotic, Dean hangs out of the window and hollers. Sam looks over his shoulders. When it’s clear that Yoko can outrun whatever piece of crap Gunner’s driving - especially when Sam punches it like he’s doing now - Dean slaps the roof of the car and slides back into his seat. He laughs and punches Sam’s arm.

Sam’s brow is all wrinkled, lips pursed with worry. It would kill Dean’s buzz if he let it. Heart rate slowing, he slaps his own knee. “Holy shit, man. That was awesome. You see that guy?”

“We need to talk about this,” Sam says, shaking his head. “There's something about you. You attract... you attract creepy guys.”

“You think that guy…” Dean jerks a thumb back towards the bar. “He was trying to fucking kill me. Are you're saying this is my fault?”

“That's not what I said.”

“That's exactly what you said.”

“It's not what I meant.”

“Well, then, say what the fuck you mean.” Dean is still hyped enough from the last fight to be cruising for another one.

“I mean…” Sam mumbles, “I don't know what I mean.”

“You think I draw too much attention to myself.” Dean fills in the blank for him, body growing tenser by the second.

“Yeah.”

Jody says the same thing. 

“And you think that you're one of these creepy guys I attract.”

Sam shrugs. “Shoe fits.”

“So, should I join a monastery and you should be castrated. Or vice versa. That part isn't clear.”

Sam sighs and glances at him. “I think we could both stand to examine -”

“Shut up.”

His voice quakes. “...ourselves … to determine -”

“Shut up, Sam.”

Sam’s breath hitches. “...whether we -”

“Stop it.” Dean grabs his hand. “Please. That guy was not a suitor, okay? He was a dickhead.”

Sam squints at him and then raises his hand to Dean’s lip. “Look at your face.”

It stings, but Dean doesn’t swat him away. He grins, and that stings a little, too. It never hurts in the moment. Always after. Dean leans up on one hip and pulls the wallet from his back pocket.

“Is that …”

“Gunner, my ass. George Lambert.” Dean tosses the guy’s ID out of the open window.

He helps himself to the cash and flings the wallet onto the side of the road. Sam snatches the wad from Dean and tosses that out of the driver's window. “You need anything, you come to me.”

Dean turns and watches the dollar bills flutter out behind them, lit up by the tail lights before disappearing into the darkness.

 

***

 

 

The concierge’s eyes pop saucer-wide as they stumble into the lobby.

Sam leans as little weight as possible on Dean’s shoulder, but accepts the support. The older woman who was checking in shuffles behind her husband and clutches the white pearls at her neck.

“We were mugged,” Dean answers the unuttered question on all of their faces.

“Do you need an ambulance?” The receptionist already has the phone in her hand.

“No!” Sam grunts, “Thank you.”

“Would you like a first aid kit?”

“We already have one.” Dean grins and ushers Sam to the elevator.

Once the doors slip closed behind them, Dean slides Sam's hair behind his ears and peers into his eyes like he's searching for something. Sam leans back, lets his head fall against the steel wall. “Did you see that woman?”

“Never had anybody look at you like that before, have you? I should have finished the fantasy for her, snatched that necklace right off her wrinkly throat.”

Sam shuts his eyes, just needs a moment's rest.

“I used to run around with these Dominican kids. You should have seen the way people looked at us, like we were fucking werewolves or something.”

Sam’s chest heaves in and out, but he still can’t catch his breath. “Should we go home? We should go home.”

The tiny space tilts. The elevator dings. The doors slide open. Sam takes three steps before he drops to his knees on the floor. His hands are shaking. Dean’s voice is three octaves too low. Sam has never been this close to his shoes.

 

At the other end of a tunnel, Sam peers up into clear, moss-colored eyes.

“Dude.”

Sam tries to stave off the wave of emotion by biting his already injured lip. It’s like resisting the undertow. He drops his chin to his chest and sobs. “I’m sorry. I … don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Between humiliation and the fresh awareness of pain flooding his body, Sam closes his eyes and wishes he could sink into the floor. Dean slides down beside him and drapes an arm over Sam’s shoulder, rocking. It’s so kind and unexpected, all Sam can do is accept it and cry himself out.

When he’s finally dry, he shakes his head, drained.

Dean uses his thumb to draw down Sam’s lower eyelid as if he’s medically trained to handle the situation. “When’s the last time you were in a fight?”

“I don’t know. High school, I guess. Some kids got pissed after they lost. That’s the only one I can remember.”

Dean pats his cheek and smiles. “I once saw this kid get three teeth knocked out with a cinder block. He kept fighting until the guys that jumped him ran off. Then, he fucking collapsed, and I know for a fact that his dad kicked his ass on a daily basis. Just, sometimes… At least, you didn’t shit yourself. Some guys do when they fight.”

A woman emerges from one of the rooms and presses herself against the other wall to walk around Sam’s outstretched legs.

“She probably just thinks you’re a junkie.” Dean laughs and pats Sam’s chest. “Whenever you’re ready, man. I can’t carry your ass back to the room.”

Sam manages a light chuckle. “It’s the adrenaline. Side effects.”

“Yup.”

“You get off on this? ‘Cause I feel like shit.”

“I’m used to it.” Dean shrugs. “Never had much of a crash afterward. Some do, some don’t.”

After a few more minutes, Dean helps Sam into their room. He retrieves the red box from beside the bed and starts laying things out on the kitchenette table with a precision Sam has not seen him display anywhere other than on the field.

“Ok. We’re going to clean you up, bandage what we can. It always looks worse than it is," Dean says. "Since you’re a fainter, we’re going to hold off on the shower.”

“I’m not a fainter.”

“OK, well, you fainted, which… is usually what fainters do, so...” He unpacks an alcohol pad and dabs it over Sam’s eyebrows.

The fumes burn his eyes and the liquid stings. Dean’s face is calm as he continues to talk through patching Sam up. “I’m not judging you, man. There have been times I fucking wished I could faint. Besides, you get in a few more of these, it’ll be like a trip to the zoo.”

“No, thanks,” Sam slurs and yawns.

“Well, you’re a damn good fighter. Kicking ass with a guy on your back. Not bad.” Dean chuckles. “Did you learn that military ninja shit from your dad? You got to show me some of that someday.”

From the time he could walk, Sam’s father had subjected him to a toddler version of basic training. It got more intense over the years and had only stopped when he went away to college. 

“You know how I learned how to fight?" Dean asks. "Fighting. Mostly sons of bitches who wanted to knock me out. Not for this shit. That’s just ignorant.”

The rhythm and tone of Dean’s voice is more soothing than his words. Thinking back over the fight, Sam recalls in surprising detail. Dean’s right, he had been under attack on multiple fronts, likely because of his size. What he remembers most vividly is trying to keep his eyes on Dean while dealing with the onslaught. The kid brawls like a wildcat, throwing his elbows and kicking more than swinging punches.

Sam had never been so frightened in his life. It’s no wonder that his adrenaline level had spiked so high and subsequently crashed so low. He hadn’t been afraid for himself, though.

Even now, the idea that something much worse than a few scrapes and a busted lip could have happened to Dean rattles Sam to the bone. He shudders and curls his fingers around Dean’s hip to drag him into a bruising kiss. It’s as much pain as passion as the blood mingles salty-sweet between their wounded mouths.

Dean clears his throat and laughs. “Okay. Are you not in pain?”

"Yeah, I am. I just wanted to ... do that."

"Yeah. I like you, too."

“I'm pretty far past that at this point,” Sam admits, his face warming to match the heat in his chest.

The kid titters and diverts his eyes to the abrasions on Sam's knuckles. “How much did you drink tonight?”

With his uninjured left hand, Sam cups his face. Dean blinks a few times and finally meets his eyes. He tries for a smile that deflates the moment Sam speaks.

“I'm crazy about you.” A series of indiscernible emotions flit over Dean’s face. His eyes widen, brow furrows, nose wrinkles before he settles on such obvious discomfort that Sam snickers before he whispers, “I think, I… um, I love you.”

Dean winces and backs away, though just a step. "That's not what you say after a fight, man."

“Okay. I hate you?”

His guarded scowl breaks into cautious laughter. "Better."

Despite the pain, a smile blossoms over Sam's cut lips as he pulls Dean close and presses their foreheads together. “I hate you, a lot.”

 


	20. Chapter 20

  
TUESDAY  
  
  
Even before Dean opens his eyes, his heart soars and dips. He’s used to this. To Sam, all sleep-warm and perfect, the low rumble of his breath deep and steady. The bulk of him hogging most of the space. Over night, Dean overheated under furnace-hot limbs and balled up in the top left corner of the bed, but he doesn't mind.  
  
The closest thing he’s experienced to this is juvie, waking up and peering into the bunk across the cell. At a shelter, he might watch the snot-nosed kid in the next cot roll over and yawn. It’s not even the same universe. If Dean is honest with himself, he’s not used to waking next to Sam; he’s hooked and do anything in his power never to move again.  
  
But that's not how life works. Sam's long lashes flutter open. He smiles and closes them again. Dean wipes his hair aside and inspects the butterfly bandage over his left brow. They skipped tooth brushing last night to avoid the pain. Certain of his nasty-ass morning breath, he touches his busted lips to the unsplit corner of Sam’s mouth. It stings a little, but it’s enough to make his dick twitch.  
  
Sam groans as he rolls over to turn off the alarm when it starts rippling. He sounds like an old man and Dean starts to laugh, then stops, gripping his aching ribs.  
  
“Feel like I been steamrolled,” Sam mumbles, trying not to move his lips.  
  
“I promise you, those assholes don’t feel any better.” Dean licks the dry corners of his mouth before he opens and closes his jaw a few times, playing with the clicking in his ears.  
  
“Jesus. Look at you.” Sam’s fingers brush his cheek.  
  
Dean winces at the slight contact. “How bad is it?”  
  
"Not good." Sam eases onto his back and hisses in a long breath. “Repeat after me. Fighting is stupid.”  
  
“Whatever you say, Dad.”  
  
“You’re lucky I’m sore, because I would be tickling the hell out of you right now.”  
  
Smiling tugs at his lip, but Dean can’t help it. Sam groans even more as he hoists his bruised, beaten body up off the hotel bed.  
  
“Do we have to go back?” Dean asks, half joking.  
  
They didn't have to. He could show Sam how to survive on the road. It would be awesome. Just the two of them, sailing down the highway in Sam’s Prius, with nowhere to go. No one to answer to.  
  
“We can take another trip next weekend, if you want. Maybe head west.” Sam smiles down at him, offering his left hand and putting an end to the reverie. “Come on, so I can get you to school on time.”

 

***

 

Dean’s fingers dance along the dashboard as if he was performing this piano concerto. When Sam chuckles, Dean glances at him and smirks, all playful and seductive. Sam could pull over the car and suck him off, fat lip be damned, but he has accepted his role as the responsible one.  
  
“Fifth,” he calls out the gear.  
  
Dean shifts with his left hand before tucking his palm beneath Sam’s ailing right hand and lifting it to kiss each bruised knuckle.  
  
Sam parks a few blocks from the school, in a residential neighborhood, across the street from a bus stop. He checks out of his window to be sure no one is on their way to work or picking up the newspaper. “You got plenty of time.”  
  
“This our spot?”  
  
"Yeah. I think it’s pretty good.”  
  
Their mouths are too busted up for kissing. Sam’s ribs are too tender for much of anything else. Dean rubs his cheek over Sam’s, nuzzling him like a foal. Sam closes his eyes and smiles as Dean whispers, “You gonna make it back in time?”  
  
“If I haul ass.” Sam nods, murmuring, too. “Want me to hold onto your stuff?”  
  
“Yeah.” Dean nips his earlobe.  
  
“Pick you up after work?”  
  
“After practice,” Dean corrects.  
  
“If you want.”  
  
“Yeah, I want.” Dean starts to get out, then he turns and steals a kiss after all.  
  
It's a light, sweet peck and he pulls away, wincing through the smile. Sam strokes beside the angry purple bruise on his face and boops his nose with a fingertip. "Go on. Have a good day.”

 

***

Mrs. Mosely’s eyes are wide open when Sam slides in behind his desk. “Well, the award for Most Interesting Weekend belongs to Sam Winchester.”  
  
“Good morning.” He lowers his head and smiles before setting his mug on his desk.  
  
His neighbor to the left is a timid, dark-haired woman whose name he knows, but has never addressed directly. Amelia sits back in her chair and asks, “Are you in a fight club?”  
  
“I don’t think that’s a real thing, Amy, honey.” Mrs. Mosely winks at Sam. “But if you ever run into Brad Pitt, you be sure and let me know.”  
  
Sam chuckles. Amelia shrugs.  
  
“I fell down some steps.” Sam fires up his computer.  
  
Mrs. Mosley laughs out loud. “So, that's your story?”  
  
“And I'm sticking to it.” Sam shares a grin with her despite the painful protests of his injured mouth.  
  
She holds up her coffee mug for a toast. “Well, whatever it is, the fact that you took off work impresses the hell out of me. First time in two years, right?”  
  
Sam clinks his tea to her coffee and toasts with Amelia, as well.  
  
“It wasn’t that little black-haired guy, was it?”  
  
“No,” Sam answers, his good mood demolished.  
  
“Who was that, by the way? I had half a mind to call the cops that day.”  
  
Sam clears a century’s worth of dust from his throat. “I don't know. Some guy.”  
  
Mrs. Mosely cocks her head. “He kept saying your name.”  
  
“Hm.” Sam shrugs.  
  
He turns on his cell phone. His voice mail is full, and he switches it off again rather than deal with it.

 

***

  
Dean bends low, checking that the other stalls are empty before he leans back against the door, unbuckles his pants and lowers them enough to grab his boner in his fist. He jacks himself Sam's way. His breath catches in his throat as he strokes a little faster and slides his thumb over the tip to slick himself with pre-cum.  
  
"Aw, fuck, Sam."  
  
He pants and groans, keeping the phone steady in his left hand the whole time. When he finally blows his load, shuddering and leaning his weight against the door, the hinges clank.  
  
"Wish you were here." Dean grins to himself as he sends the NSFW video to Sam during work hours.

 

***

 

Sam’s desk phone rings. Mrs. Mosely smiles over as he stands up to take the call elsewhere. He’d rather not take it at all. He’d rather toss the phone into the trashcan than answer this call. Instead, he presses the green button and says his own name by way of a greeting.  
  
“Mr. Winchester. Hello. This is your doctor’s office. We tried your personal line. I hope it's okay to receive calls at work."  
  
"Yes, of course." Otherwise, he wouldn't have given them the damn number.  
  
"We’ve got some test results for you.”  
  
Sam swallows hard. He walks down the hall with his shoulders huddled and an arm wrapped around his sore ribs as he prepares himself for whatever she says next.

 

***

Dean never asked for this, not that it bothers him, it’s just a little weird. Garth is still delivering a can of Coke at least once a week and presenting it like Dean is a knight of the round table or something. All he can do is nod in awkward appreciation, "You know, you don't need to --"

Ash claps his hands twice in quick succession. There exists no more obnoxious sound, until the jackass opens his god damned mouth. “All right, you bunch of sissies. Move your faggot asses.”  
  
A few guys grumble. Lockers slam shut. Glenn takes his sweet time lacing up his shoes. Coach has put Ash in charge of the warm-up run. The best way to get this asshole to shut up is to get it done and over with.  
  
“You shouldn't talk like that.” The voice is so hushed, they could have all pretended they didn’t hear it at all.  
  
Of course, no one pretends any such thing. The locker room goes hush enough to hear a mouse fart, and all eyes turn on Garth.

The grin that oozes across Ash’s face rivals the Joker's. “What’d you say?”  
  
Garth clears his throat, but doesn’t speak any louder. “In case there's a homosexual in the room.”  
  
It’s like someone has sucked all the air out of the place, but it doesn’t matter because no one is breathing anyway.  
  
Ash waves an arm at his spectators and man, they are watching. “Only ones here are us and you. So, if you're saying I've offended your sensitive gay feelings, well, then ... you can kiss my ass. Except you’ll probably enjoy it.”  
  
“I'm not gay,” Garth announces it to the floor.  
  
He is in no way, shape or form a match for Ash. Why he is doing this to himself?  
  
Ash cackles. “Yeah. Right. We've all seen the way you look at Smith like you want his balls in your milk for breakfast.”  
  
That earns a few snickers. Someone pats Dean on the back - one of the receivers. Self-preservation dictates he pretend to be amused, but it's not happening when he’s about to lose his lunch.  
  
“I'm not gay, all right. But ... some people are.” To his credit, Garth never looks at Dean. Not once. Not for backup. Not for anything. “As many as 4% of the population, by some estimates.”  
  
Garth has a slight southern accent Dean never noticed before. It’s totally random that he hears it now.  
  
“That’s not a whole lot, is it? We could exterminate their asses, and no one would miss them. Unless somebody else has a problem, I think that means I can say whatever the hell I want.” Ash searches the faces of his minions, but doesn’t seem to find any objections.  
  
Instead of backing down, Garth pipes up, “Black people are a minority, too. So are women.”  
  
“So, are you saying you’re a pussy or a nig--”  
  
“Alright, Ash.” Dean cuts him off and steps between them.  
  
Not because he wants to. He wants to stay all the way the hell out of it. He wouldn’t mind hightailing it from the room, but the entire team is listening. This thing is about to go from 0 to 100 real quick. Dean shuts it down as the coach enters the room and looks between them. “What's going on?”  
  
“Garth here is having a coming out moment.” Ash snarls. “And quite frankly, I don't think he belongs on this team anymore.”  
  
“That's not …” Garth stutters and looks more hurt than if Ash had punched him.  
  
“What's going on here?” Coach looks to Dean, his glare lingering longer than necessary.  
  
The face. Right? This is the first load he's getting of Dean's injuries.   
  
“Nothing, Coach. We're working it out.” Dean assures him.  
  
“Then, work it out and get your asses on the track.”  
  
“Yes, sir.” Dean waits for the click of the door behind him.  
  
Their teammates file out of the room. Ash eyes Garth like he’s the one good thing on his lunch tray.  
  
Dean sighs and looks back and forth between them. “All right. We're going to follow the fucking rules and quit with the slurs. No slurs. Nothing that might be offensive to anybody. And we're going to assume that we don't have any gay players because nobody has identified themselves that way. We clear?”  
  
“Like a crystal, Cap’n.” Ash leers at the needle-neck kid, punches a locker and follows the rest of the team outdoors.  
  
Dean sighs, shakes his head at Garth, hands open in question. “What was that?”  
  
“Was it bad?” Garth screws up his funny looking face so much, Dean almost laughs out loud.  
  
“You know this shit has nothing to do with me, right?”  
  
It wasn't planned; the words spilled out of his mouth. Dean is not ashamed or embarrassed, especially not about this thing with Sam. This thing with Sam is the best damn thing he’s ever had.  
  
So, why did he say that?  
  
Looks like Sam's homophobia is contagious. Because that’s what it is. Sam doesn’t want people to know he’s gay, but Dean’s not gay. He’s an equal opportunity, borderline nymphomaniac, who happens to be getting it on with a guy these days. That’s not the same as being gay.  
  
Anyway, it's not anyone else's business. There's a huge difference between random strangers and the guys you play ball with. Guys you're supposed to be leading. Guys who already look up to you, whether they should or not.  
  
Fuck Ash and his opinion. But for a lot of these guys, finding out their QB sucks dick would be a morale buster - even a dick as magnificent as Sam's. Not to mention what Coach would say about it. What Sam’s father would say. That’s a train of thought Dean refuses to board.  
  
There’s nothing wrong with keeping his private shit on private, for the sake of the team.  
  
Garth narrows his eyes. “Well, if it did have anything to do with you, there wouldn’t be a thing wrong with it,“  
  
“Yeah. I know that.” Dean scratches his ear. “Just scram, Harvey Milk. Jesus.”

 

***

 

  
Dean is waiting at the bus stop where they agreed to meet. He has an ankle resting on his knee while he engages in animated conversation with a middle-aged woman in scrubs. The moment he sees Sam’s car, he smiles and picks up his backpack. He waves back at the nurse before climbing into the passenger's seat.  
Sam doesn’t get the car into gear before the kid's fingers are in his hair.  
  
“I want to kiss you, but my mouth is still fucked.”  
  
Sam chuckles and holds out his elbow to keep Dean from climbing over the center console. Dean's new friend is watching with wide eyes. Dean searches over his shoulder in the direction of Sam’s gaze and sinks back into his seat.  
  
“I’m in pain here.” Sam grips his ribs. It’s not a lie. They have been aching him all day.  
  
Dean grips Sam's neck, coaxing him to tilt his head so he can have a better view of his black eye. “You don’t feel any better?”  
  
“I feel like somebody cracked a chair over my back and tried to beat the crap out of me. How are you holding up?” Sam quietly peels away the hand. “Will you put it in first gear? Been typing all day. My hand is killing me.”  
  
Dean obliges, then leans his head back and pulls on his seat belt. “I’m just tired as fuck.”  
  
“I'm sorry I’m late. Got caught up in traffic.”  
  
“No biggie.” Dean drops his hand on Sam’s thigh and rolls his head over to ask, “There a reason you’re not answering your phone?”  
  
“Had to turn it off.”  
  
“Should I ask?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“All right, then." Dean’s hand slides toward Sam's groin. "How was your day?”  
  
“Pretty typical. I did, however, get some nice news.”  
  
“Oh, yeah? Spill.”  
  
Sam grins. “I'll show you, soon as we get home.”  
  
They both hear the word. Home. Neither of them corrects it.  
  
Sam clears his throat. “How about you?”  
  
“My day was fucking nuts.”  
  
“Yeah?” Sam comes to a full stop at the red light and turns to face Dean.  
  
He does look pretty exhausted. The bruise on his face is plum-colored. Sam strokes a hand over his hair, even though his knuckles scream at him for it. Dean smiles and leans into the touch, letting his eyes fall shut. “For one thing, everyone assumed I’d been in a street fight. Had to go to the counselor for that. Then, your dad was being weird as hell. Kept looking at me funny.”  
  
Sam flinches at the mention of his father. “How so?”  
  
“I don’t know.” Dean shakes his head like he’s trying to make sense of it himself. “You don’t think he knows?”  
  
“About us? No way.” Sam shudders, queasy with the thought of it. “God, no.”  
  
“Then, Jo asked me to Homecoming.”  
  
Sam blinks. The light turns green. The car behind them honks.  
  
“Sam.” Dean nods toward the light.  
  
Sam blinks. Cars honk and start to drive around them. Sam sits there blinking until he’s able to speak. “Are you...Is she your…Jo is your -”  
  
“I don't have a fucking girlfriend, all right?” Dean rolls his eyes like it should be obvious.  
  
He also probably still has those panties in his pocket. Sam takes a deep breath and clears his throat. “She likes you.”  
  
"I'm a likable guy."  
  
"Have you…” The car is spinning. “Are you sleeping with my sister?"  
  
“No. Sam. No.” Dean reaches for his hand.  
  
Sam holds it out of his reach, needing a moment to compose himself. His face and hand hurt, but he rubs the one with the other. The thought of Dean with other people makes Sam sadder than he wants to admit to himself. The idea that Dean has a girlfriend makes him miserable. Dean with his little sister is beyond Sam’s ability to tolerate.  
  
“I kissed her. Okay? Once. Before me and you ever met."  
  
Sam drops his head into his hands, massages his forehead with his fingertips.  
  
"You want to pull over?”  
  
 "What'd you tell her?"  
  
"What do you mean?" Dean taps on the hazard lights.  
  
"Jo. What did you say to Jo?"  
  
"Do you know the balls it takes to ask someone out? Jo’s my friend. I told her yeah, sure. That we can go as friends.” Dean shakes his head, shrugging, making this face like it’s the most natural thing in the world to date a guy and the guy’s sister at the same time.  
  
Sam's teeth are grinding, his whole body shaking. "You're going to Homecoming with my sister?"  
  
"Is that a problem, Sam?”  
  
He chokes out a laugh, the first tear welling in the corner of his eyes. "First time I had sex was after Homecoming."  
  
“How was it?”  
  
“Unpleasant.”  
  
“Yeah, like ice cream?” Dean rolls his eyes. “Look, I’ve already crossed that milestone, okay?”  
  
“Don't fuck my sister, Dean,” Sam growls, his voice raw with aggression.  
  
He grips the steering wheel to keep himself from grabbing the kid or doing something else he’ll regret later.  
  
“Maybe you should just take me home.”  
  
“Maybe I should.” Body still tense, Sam eases his foot off the brake.  
  
Dean folds his arms over his chest and stares out of passenger window.  
  
Sam floods his mind with instructions and reasons to relax. Get home. Deal with this there. It doesn’t have to be an issue. Dean is not property.  
  
“I'm not going to fuck Jo, okay. She's my friend.”  
  
“What am I?” Sam doesn’t mean it to come out so needy, but there it is.  
  
He’s been asking himself this question and now it's filling up the car like carbon monoxide.  
  
“You're …” The noise that doesn’t fill Sam with soft, fuzzy feelings. It’s a cross between a laugh and an exasperated sigh. "I don't like labels, man. You know that.”  
  
Sam nods.  
  
“Can't we just ... keep having a good time without having to call it something?”  
  
Sam nods and bites a fresh wound into his upper lip to keep from screaming and cursing.  
  
“Sam.”  
  
“No, that's fine.” He forces himself not to move when Dean touches his wrist.  
  
Dean sucks his teeth and crosses his arms again. “Now, you're pissed at me.”  
  
“Not at you.”

 

***

  
Sam has been quiet the whole ride, but he seems to have relaxed a little bit. Dean turned up whatever classical music he was listening to and shut the fuck up. He never should have mentioned the stupid Homecoming, or Jo, or anything else.  
  
Sam nods a greeting to one of his neighbors at the steel row of mailbox. The old guy peers over at Dean who probably looks like he's loitering, leaning against the wall while he waits. Sam flips through his envelopes and doesn’t acknowledge the guy’s curiosity or make introductions. That was to be expected.  
  
Once they're in the elevator, Dean presses Sam up against the wall and grins up at him. “That guy looked like Grandpa Munster.”  
  
Sam smiles like it's a chore. He tolerates Dean's paw on his crotch, but doesn't seem thrilled about it. “I would have introduced you, but I forgot his name.”  
  
Dean chuckles at the lie. It doesn’t matter; their thing is not about anybody else. He nips Sam’s chin, kneads his balls through the fabric. “Come on, Sammy.”  
  
“Dean.”   
  
“Sam. Sorry.” Dean sighs and steps away, giving Sam his space. "I guess I don't have to tell you, you're being a bitch right now."  
  
The elevator chimes and the doors open. Dean adjusts his backpack on his shoulder and follows Sam to the door of his apartment. Maybe when they're inside, Sam’ll chill and they can enjoy the rest of the evening.  
  
But it doesn’t happen that way.  
  
“I’m just going to change,” Sam murmurs and heads back to his room.  
  
Dean doesn’t follow him. He can respect a guy wanting to be left alone for a while, and heads into the kitchen. Maybe he’ll surprise Sam and cook something.   
  
A distressed shout comes from the back of the apartment. Dean drops the milk, leaves the fridge hanging open and rushes toward the sound.  
  
For a moment, he pauses at the door blinking at the scene.  
  
Dean is not squeamish by a long shot, but he’s never seen so much blood in his life. Even once his head is clear, it’s hard to process what he’s seeing: a little dog laying limp in Sam’s ex’s lap while Sam cradles the  black-haired man against his chest.  
  
And blood. Everywhere.  
  
Sam peers at him and whispers, “Help.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: strongly implied child abuse

Sam's hands are clasped before his downturned face like a man in prayer. Maybe he's religious. Dean has no idea. He doesn't know this guy. They've been fucking and playing house and that's it. Dean does not belong here; Sam's ex is not his disaster, Jody is.  
  
Sam's thumbs are tucked beneath his chin, elbows rested on his thighs. Every once in a while, he looks around the room, as if he’s searching for something. He sits up, takes a deep breath, then, assumes that lost-in-thought position again. And there's no way in Hell that Dean would leave him, even if Sam wasn't his ride.  
  
When Dean reaches for his knee, Sam flinches as if a bug has landed on him. Dean huffs out a humorless laugh. Sam casts his eyes to the right, bringing Dean’s attention to the security guard in the counter of the waiting room.  
  
“Dude. He's a rent-a-cop.”  
  
“Shh.” Sam narrows his eyes, dark circles already filling around them, although they’ve only been waiting a few hours. “Just…”  
  
Dean wipes his hand over his mouth and stands up. “I'm going to get a soda. You want something?”  
  
Sam shakes his head. A nurse enters as Dean is going through the door.  
  
“Sam Winchester.”  
  
Sam stands to meet her.  
  
“You are Mr. Novak’s emergency contact.”  
  
Sam nods, arms hanging at his sides. Dean would step closer to offer a little support, but Sam won’t want that, so he remains by the door.  
  
“Do you know how we can reach his family?”  
  
“No. I mean, they... he doesn't --”  
  
“I understand. Is Mr. Novak your partner? I assume you’re not married.”  
  
Dean’s heart clenches tight at the question. Sam’s eyes flick over to him and Dean looks at the floor.  
  
“No. He's a friend.”  
  
“But he is homosexual?”  
  
Sam’s nose turns up. “You need to know that?”  
  
The nurse turns the clipboard and points to the question.  
  
“It says optional. Leave it blank. Please.”  
  
“Any recreational drugs, to the best of your knowledge?”  
  
Sam scratches his head and heaves out a loud breath. “I don't think so. I don’t know.”  
  
The nurse makes a note on her chart. “The rest, I think we have in the system. Now, there’s the question of insurance?”  
  
“I’ll take care of it.”  
  
She hands Sam some paperwork to sign, but continues on to say, “ We've cleaned him up, run some tests. There are no external wounds. The blood must have been someone else's. Was there an altercation?” The nurse looks over her shoulder at Dean.  
  
“No, that’s... unrelated.”  
  
From the way she looks Dean over, it's clear she's already made her assumptions. He gives her a little smile and leaves them to it.  
  
They’ve moved Castiel from triage to room 313. He just lays there, looking like a vampire in peaceful slumber, with his dark hair and pale skin. Dean could put a pillow over his handsome face and see if he comes back from that.  
  
A male nurse enters the room and puts a finger to his smiling lips. “Better to let him sleep.”  
  
Dean steps back to make space to check Castiel’s vitals. When he’s done, the nurse touches Dean’s arm. “He’s going to be fine.”

 

***

  
Castiel is tucked under Sam’s arm with his head rested on his shoulder. Dean walks behind them in the parking lot, looking at anything other than the two of them huddled together, all familiarity and comfort.  
  
As Sam opens the back door, Castiel grips his shirt tight. Sam sighs over his shoulder asking with his eyes if Dean will drive. Dean bites his tongue and Sam hands him the keys. Once he has adjusted the seats and the mirrors, he looks into the rearview. Sam, with his arm around Castiel, mouths the words, ‘I’m sorry.’  
  
Dean clears his throat. “Where to, sir?”  
  
Sometimes it works: turning his agony into comedy. This time it just falls flat.  
  
“Home. To my place.”

 

***  
  
While Sam helps Castiel to the guest room, Dean blows out a loud, long gust of air. Sam’s bed looks like a war zone. Dean hold his breath to roll up the poor, half-stiff dog, along with the carving knife, and all the pillows and sheets. He runs into the kitchen to get a trash bag, passes by the guest room willing himself not to look in at them.  
  
The self-control fails on the way back. Sam is sitting on the side of the bed, wiping Castiel’s hair from his face, murmuring. Dean’s chest tightens, he takes a step back and the plastic rustles in his hands. Sam looks up, his smile painful like he’s been crying or he’s about to start. It's a private moment. Dean steps away to give them some peace.  
  
The mattress is dry beneath the mess, but stained all over. All Dean can do is flip it. He's tucking a sheet under the third corner when Sam whispers, “He needs a shower.”  
  
He's leaning against the door jamb running both hands over his face.  
  
“You gonna... take care of that for him?”  
  
“We lived together for six years, Dean. I've already seen what he's got.”  
  
Dean nods, gut clenching into a ball. His throat constricts, and he turns away, working to occupy his hands, even as his mind slips into overdrive.  
  
“I won't, if you don't want me to.”  
  
What Dean wants to do is shout and throw shit. Instead, he flicks on the television and settles on the bed. “I’m not your boss. Do what you gotta do, man.”  
  
“I need sleep.”  
  
Dean points to his bedside table. “Made you some tea.”  
  
“You made me tea?” Sam gapes as though Dean had kissed his feet.  
  
“Yeah.” Dean pretends to be rapt in the stupid show.  
  
He watches from the corner of his eye as Sam makes his way to the mug, wrapshis huge hands around the cup and breathes in the steam. He has a sip, and his face contorts for a split second before straightening again.  
  
“Too strong?”  
  
“No. It’s perfect.” Sam puts down the cup.  
  
He climbs onto the bed and lays his head on Dean’s chest, arm slung around his waist, legs curled like a kid. Dean strokes his hair and mutes the TV.  “Is he your emergency contact, too?”  
  
Sam nods.  
  
“You gonna change that?”  
  
Sam sighs and wipes a hand down his face. “You're a minor, Dean.”  
  
“I didn't mean me. I meant ... in general.”  
  
“Yeah. You’re right. I should.” He lifts the hem of Dean’s shirt and plants a kiss on his belly. “Thank you.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
Sam kisses him there again. “Just being here. Being solid.”  
  
“You’re welcome.” It's only through years of practice that Dean keeps the prickly hot emotion out of his voice.  
  
“I thought --”  
  
“I know.” He runs his fingers through Sam’s hair.  
  
“I just…” Sam shakes his head, warm cheek pressed against Dean’s skin. “I knew he wasn’t stable. I was just… so selfish.”  
  
“Dude. You’re allowed to break up with someone and not have them lose their shit like this. ”  
  
“It’s a cry for help.”  
  
“He’s fucking insane, Sam. Normal people don’t… kill dogs.”  
  
Sam leans up on his elbow. “Which is why he needs help.”  
  
Dean’s nostrils flare as his internal temperature starts to approach its limits. “Let’s talk about something else.”  
  
Sam moves up the bed and kisses him, sweet and brief and it stings a little bit. Dean clutches the back of his skull, plunging his tongue into Sam’s mouth, but he pulls away.  
  
“I’m beat.”  
  
Dean nods and watches the 1990s Jeopardy rerun. He used to think Alex Trebek must be the smartest guy in the world. It's easy to look smart when you have cue cards. Dean could use a cue card in situations like this. Yeah. Like all the times he’s been laying in dog blood, fighting back tears and an erection, with his boyfriend’s boyfriend in the next room recovering from a .4 blood alcohol level.  
  
“You said you had news.”  
  
“Uh… Yeah.” Sam lays flat on his back and allows Dean to unbutton his shirt while he speaks. “I talked to my mom. We're going to have dinner tomorrow.”  
  
“That’s awesome. Your dad, too?”  
  
“One thing at a time.”  
  
“Guess that’s fair.”  
  
“I also heard from my doctor’s office.” He folds both arms behind his head and licks his lips.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
Sam nods and smirks. “Clean as a whistle.”  
  
“Now, that is fucking awesome news.” Dean leans forward to plunder Sam’s mouth. To Hell with the pain.  
  
Sam holds him back and brings a finger to his lips. “Shh.”  
  
Dean groans and rolls onto his back. “Does he have to stay here? I mean… I know it’s not my place, but... Is there nowhere else he can go?”  
  
“No. There isn’t.” Sam lifts Dean’s hand to his mouth and kisses his palm. “Let’s get a little sleep.”

 

***

  
Dean wakes up sprawled across Sam’s cushy bed. Even with the extra space, it's nowhere near as comfortable without Sam in it.  
  
It’s after 10:00 AM. He’s late no matter what he does, so Dean stretches out, scratches his balls and strokes his wood a little. He takes a long whiff of Sam’s pillow and smiles. If he could bottle up that scent and take it with him...  
  
He comes from the shower into the kitchen whistling the theme song from The Love Boat, but stops cold. Castiel is sitting at the table eating scrambled eggs. He peers up at Dean with blood-shot blue eyes. Sam looks back and forth between them. Before Dean can decipher what he’s thinking, Castiel leaps from his stool, knocking it to the tile behind him. His plate shatters, and his hands wrap around Dean’s throat.  
  
Gasping for air, Dean stumbles backward a few steps before he careens to the floor. Castiel’s gritted teeth are perfectly straight, which is a strange last thought. Dean closes his fists around the lunatic’s wrists as Sam wraps his arms around Castiel’s chest. Sam tosses the maniac into the corner by the stove and towers over him, breathing hard. Still, Castiel strains and struggles to get around him, leaping at Sam’s chest, screeching like an unhinged monkey trying to break from a cage.  
  
Breathing through his open mouth, Dean stays on the floor - ass on the living room carpet, feet on the kitchen tile - in awe. It's an uncommon level of crazy.  
  
Castiel picks up the frying pan and hurls it, eggs and all, past Sam. Dean flinches although it doesn’t come close to hitting him. Sam glances over his shoulder and shakes his head in apology. He grabs two fistfuls of Castiel’s shirt and lifts him to his tiptoes. “Look at me.”  
  
Dean climbs to his feet, folds his arms and leans back against the wall.  
  
Castiel snarls again and swats at Sam’s hands. He snaps his teeth like a starved zombie. When that doesn't work, he butts his forehead against Sam’s nose so hard that Dean can feel it. Sam grips his face and steps back. “God damn it, Cas.”  
  
Castiel snakes free and chases Dean into the living room. Dean hurdles over the sofa. Cas follows him, diving over the back. For a moment, they stand toe to toe. Castiel pants. “He’s mine.”  
  
“Dude. You’re fucking nuts.”  
  
Castiel lunges and Dean jabs him in the mouth. The crazy man reels on his feet, but doesn’t go down. He snatches up a small statue from a table and slams it across Dean’s skull. That thing about seeing stars, that happens, but no little birdies fly around his head. Dean stumbles and slumps against the wall.  
  
“Castiel,” Sam says his name like he’s handing down commandments.  
  
Castiel’s arm is raised in the air, preparing another blow. His chest heaves as he looks between Sam and Dean.  
  
“Put. It. Down.” Sam eyes are dark and vicious.  
  
Castiel doesn’t comply. He doesn’t brain Dean either. His moment of hesitation gives Sam enough time to cross the room and pluck the bronze elephant from his hands. Sam drops it, kneels, and takes Dean’s face in his hands. “Are you alright?”  
  
Dean blinks up at him, head screaming, NO! Sam’s expression morphs from concern to fury. When he turns to face Castiel, he's grown twice as tall and broad. “You don’t touch him. You understand me?”  
  
Castiel whines and strains toward Dean again. Sam grips his shoulders and gives him a light shake. “Stop it. I mean it. Stop, now. Or you’re out.”  
  
“He’s the sphinx, isn’t he?" Castiel collapses against Sam, weeping with his hands on his shoulders. "You lied to me. You lied, Sammy. You told me you weren’t fucking him.”  
  
“I didn’t lie. We… Things changed.”  
  
Castiel’s head drops forward, shaking from side to side as if he refuses to believe it. Then, he looks up, steel-blue eyes menacing at Dean. “I’m going to gut him like a fish. I’m going to peel him. You hear that, you little whore? I’m going to -”  
  
“Castiel, you listen to me.” Sam shifts so that he blocks Castiel's view of Dean. “You don’t touch him. You don’t threaten him. As a matter of fact, you don’t talk to him. You stay away from him. And if you so much as look at him wrong, ever again, I will end you.”

 

***

  
Sam doesn’t talk for the entire ride. Not a single word. Doesn't want to hear any music. Once they’re parked, he plants a somber kiss on Dean’s temple. “Are you sure you’re okay?”  
  
“I’m fine.” Dean grins and knocks on his forehead. “Solid steel.”  
  
“I’m going to deal with this. I just need a little time, okay?”  
  
Dean nods.  
  
“I’ll see you tonight?”  
  
“Same Bat-everything.”  
  
Sam smiles a little. By the clock on the console, Dean's lunch period is underway. A good way to start the school day.  
  
When he strolls onto campus, about a dozen students crowd the front lawn, led by none other than JoAnna Winchester. They’re all marching in a line, hoisting shoddy, handmade signs above their heads. Hers is standard college ruled, rainbow striped with the words Hate-Free Zone in black bubble letters.  
  
“Jo. What am I looking at here?”  
  
“What does it look like?”  
  
Considering the abundance of rainbows and pink, Dean answers, “It looks like a fricking pride march.”  
  
“That would be amazing.” She points to a stack of handmade signs. “You should stand with us.”  
  
“Yeah. I don’t think so.”  
  
She shoves her poster in his chest. “This affects you, too.”  
  
“No,” Dean assures. “It doesn’t. I don’t know why y’all are even doing this.”  
  
“You didn’t hear?” She turns her nose up in self-righteous disgust. “Ash beat the crap out of Garth.”  
  
Dean looks aside, blood running cold. “That fucker.”  
  
“And called him a … you know what. I didn’t even know he was gay?”  
  
Dean runs a hand through his hair. “Does your dad know?”  
  
“Everybody knows. And nobody is doing a goddamn thing about it. ‘Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.’”  
  
“Jesus Christ.”

 

***

  
Sam stares out of the restaurant window when Mrs. Mosely nudges him with her elbow. “Sam, are you ready to order?”  
  
He looks up into the waitress’ blue-lidded eyes and blinks down at the menu.  
  
“I think he needs a minute.”  
  
Amelia’s eyes are wide and sympathetic. Dick Roman has his nose buried in his beer.  
  
“Sam, you sure you’re okay, honey?”  
  
“Yeah.” He paints on a fake smile. “Didn’t get a lot of sleep.”

 

***

 

Coach steps into the locker room and barks, “Miller.”  
  
Dean stops lacing his cleats. He hasn’t dealt with Ash yet and isn’t sure how to approach it, since the asswipe didn’t rat when Dean hulked out on him in the cafeteria, and technically, his beef with Garth is not Dean's business. Ash was picking on Garth before any of this gay crap. Before Dean ever showed up in this town. Dean had tried to have Garth’s back. What else is he supposed to do?  
  
“Yes, sir?”  
  
“Close the door.”  
  
Dean complies and awaits further instruction.  
  
“JoAnna asked you to homecoming,” the coach says without looking up from whatever he’s writing.  
  
It's not a question, but Dean confirms. “Yes, sir.”  
  
“That’s not going to happen.”  
  
“Sir?”  
  
“You need to keep away from her.” When the Coach does look up, he’s peering through Dean, like he was a ghost.  
  
For a second, Dean is too surprised to respond. His mind reels over all the reasons for the coach to be this pissed. The only thing he can think of, he’s pretty sure Coach Winchester would be strangling him if he knew. “I already told her…”  
  
“I’ll deal with Jo. You just do as I say.”  
  
Dean’s mouth opens and closes again. It’s the best possible outcome, as far as he’s concerned, but it'll be a drag to disappoint Jo.  
  
“You hear me, Miller?”  
  
“Yes, sir.”

 

 

***

Sam rises to his feet when the waiter leads his mother across the restaurant. His little sister is a surprise, but he maintains his smile for both of them. Sam bows to kiss his mother’s cheek and her arms close around him. He chuckles as curious patrons observe what should be a private reunion.  
  
At the house, with his father in the room, they'd exchanged a brief greeting before Sam's welcome ran out. In this restaurant, surrounded by strangers, he allows himself a moment to sinks into the embrace until Jo says, “This guy is waiting.”  
  
Sam clears his throat, pulls out the chair for his mom and accepts a menu from the waiter. He offers Jo an uncertain smile. She's grown so pretty. Sam shifts his knife a few centimeters to the left, for no reason at all.  
  
Once they place their orders, his mom claims his hand. “I’m so sorry, Sam. I thought sure your father would…”  
  
He squeezes her small fingers, the wedding ring ice cold. “Mom, it’s okay. Everything’s fine.”  
  
“I’m so glad you called.” Using her free hand, she dabs at the corners of her eyes with the cloth napkin.  
  
“Me, too. I don’t know why it took so long.”  
  
Even after the food arrives, she's reluctant to let him go. As Sam reaches for his fork, his mother bows her head. Jo follows suit. After a moment of hesitation, Sam does the same.  
  
When's the last time he uttered the word God?  
  
Oh.  
  
Oh my God, Dean. Don’t stop  
  
Sam suppresses a smile as his mother prays for health, happiness, and a blessed meal.  
  
Dinner passes in relative silence, none of them willing to break the spell with real questions. It’s all appreciative hums for the food and “Would you pass the salt, please?”  
  
Jo never looks up from her plate. She was in first grade when Sam left for college and ten years old the last time he talked to her. Her smile isn't very convincing and she isn't pretty.  
She is every straight boy's dream: a blonde with big, brown doe eyes, and a petite build. Her lips glisten pink, no doubt with some fruity flavor that drives Dean crazy.  
  
Dean likes girls; there's no way he isn't wild about JoAnna. He’s already kissed her; he has to want more. And of course, she's into him. Dean is… irresistible. Jo must find him every bit as hot and sweet and disarming and unnerving as Sam does.  
  
If what Dean says is true, he and Jo kissed before Sam and Dean met - a little under four weeks ago. Never mind that Dean is etched into Sam's bones now, as if he's always been there. What are those two to each other?  
  
Of course, Dean is telling the truth. He wouldn’t just look Sam in the face and lie, would he?  
  
Sam's mother says his name. He smiles, waiting for her to repeat the question.  
  
"Did you want to say something to Jo?"  
  
He must have been staring. "Uh … How's school?"  
  
"Good." Jo pushes the last of her broccoli around with her fork.  
  
"You, uh..." Sam shuts his eyes and resists. The words tumble out in spite of his best efforts. "Do you... do you have a boyfriend?"  
  
It's not something you ask a stranger and that's what Jo is. Her cheeks light up a pretty shade of pink to match her lipstick. Dean must love to see her like this. Sam sniffs and looks away.  
  
"Do I have to tell him?"  
  
"Maybe he can help. Offer some big brotherly advice."  
  
Sam has more difficulty painting on the smile this time.  
  
"No. I don't,” Jo says through clenched teeth, her face softening with every word that follows. “There's a guy I like, and he's... I think he likes me. Sometimes."  
  
Her mother pats her hand and says, “His name is Dean.”  
  
If there was a shred of doubt, it’s blown away now. They both look to Sam unaware of his heart slamming against his ribs. “What does he say? Dean.” Sam smiles, sinking and soaring sensations warring in his chest.  
  
There's an elation at saying Dean’s name in front of them, like that very sound is a secret he’s been dying to scream from the rooftop.  
  
Jo shrugs. “At first, he was totally into me. Then he wasn't. Then he kind of was. Then he wasn't.” She turns away from Sam and wipes at the corner of her eye, just like their mom had done.  
  
“He’s a nice boy." Their mother rubs Jo's shoulder." A little rough around the edges, but special.”  
  
Sam can’t help but smile and nod at that description. His mother knows Dean well.  
  
“I told Jo to let him come to her. You have to be patient and let him be the hunter.”  
  
Jo rolls her eyes. "And I'm what? The prey? I don't want it to be like that. I'm not going to play hard to get. That's 1950s advice. Isn't it?” She looks up at Sam, caramel eyes wet.  
  
Sam has a long drink of his water, crunches the ice between his teeth to stall. This is a chance to be a good brother again, to give Jo solid advice. She should be happy and get what she wants. She should also go running in the opposite direction of the boy Sam loves. “I guess ... it depends on the guy.”  
  
“If it was you…”  
  
Sam takes a deep breath and tells the God’s honest truth. “If it was me and there was this gorgeous, smart girl who was interested in me, I wouldn't give her mixed signals. That's a ... jerk thing to do. He sounds like a…”  
  
“He’s perfect,” Jo corrects him, jaw set.  
  
Sam doesn’t argue because she’s right.  
  
“If you were me, what would you do? How would you get him to like you?”  
  
Sam maps the quickest route to the exit. “It's not like there's a button you can push to make a guy like you.”  
  
“Isn't there, though?”  
  
Mary’s eyes widen. “JoAnna. If your father were here…”  
  
“But he's not. Sam. I’m asking you.” Jo looks up to her brother, lip trembling. “What should I do?”

 

***

  
Dean picks up the brown paper bag from the passenger’s seat and climbs in. He sticks his nose in it and asks, “Italian? This for me?”  
  
Sam nods.  
  
“Awesome.” Dean digs in.  
  
“Don’t eat in the car… please.”  
  
Dean stares at him for a moment, sucks his teeth. The bag crinkles as he folds it back down. “How was dinner?”  
  
“Remarkably unpleasant.” Sam pulls back onto the road. “My sister is in love with you.”  
   
“She’s not -”  
  
“Oh, no. She definitely is.” Sam watches traffic out of his mirror to keep from seeing Dean’s expression. “If you take her to homecoming -”  
  
“Your dad already put the kibosh on that.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“I mean, I’m not taking her, so you can relax.” Dean takes a huge bite of garlic bread he’s fished from the bag despite Sam’s request.  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“I don’t know,” he answers, with his mouth full.  
  
“You don’t think your friend…”  
  
“Who? Garth? No.” Dean shakes his head. “Anyway, whatever. Problem solved.”  
  
“Are you still going?”  
  
Dean yawns between bites. “Bought the damn ticket. Might as well.”  
  
For Sam, Homecoming will forever be associated with Cara Jones, who could not hear "No." And with Kevin Sherwood, who Sam would have given anything to dance to one song with. “I wish I could --”  
  
“Yeah, well, you can’t.”  
  
“I hate that,” Sam mutters out of his window, the cool wind soothes the sting behind his nose.  
  
“It is what it is.” Dean opens the bag looking for more food. “I take it Castiel is still at your place.”  
  
Sam nods. This is as good a time to broach this subject as any. The air is already foul between them. “There’s something I need to tell you, Dean.”  
  
“I don’t like the sound of that.”  
  
“I don’t like it either.”  
  
“Then, can you just not tell me?”  
  
“No,” Sam says. “I need to tell you. Because I need you to understand and I need you to be there when it happens.”

 

***

 

  
***  
  
Fingernail polish smells like what it is: poison. It's a stink Dean knows well from the many salons he grew up in. He enters, a few feet behind Sam, with his head low and the bag of cold food hanging from his arm. His appetite is shot anyway.  
  
Castiel peeks up from the sofa, where he's sitting with his legs curled up like a pretzel painting his toenails purple. “Oh my God. Look at it pout.”  
  
“Castiel,” Sam grumbles a quiet warning.  
  
“You already told him?” Castiel's sucks his teeth. “No fair. I wanted to watch.”  
  
“Dean, would you excuse us for a moment?”  
  
Dean doesn't budge as Sam kneels in Castiel’s face. “I told you…”  
  
“I'm not talking to him. I was talking to you.” He paints a purple stripe on Sam’s nose.  
  
Sam wipes it away with the back of his hand. “I'm trying to help you, Cas. I'm trying to --”  
  
“Have your cake, and a little ice cream and a pouty little cherry.” He sticks out his lower lip to mock Dean's expression, then lets out an exaggerated whimper.  
  
Murder is still on the table. Dean rolls back his shoulders and stands up straight.  
  
“I bet that mouth feels like magic on your cock, doesn't it, Sammy?” Castiel snarls at Dean like some kind of animal.  
  
Sam looks over his shoulder and shakes his head. “Please, Dean. Can you just… I’ll be there in a minute.”  
  
“What? Is he too young to hear the word cock? If you can suck it, you can say it, right, sweetheart?" Castiel squints, as if he’s trying to look right through Dean. "You know what he looks like to me?”  
  
“Castiel, shut up,” Sam says, as if he has any authority over this nutjob.  
  
“A rent boy. Doesn't he? Pretty little face. Tight little body. I know a lot of daddies who would pay top dollar-”  
  
It happens so fast Dean doesn’t catch it. There's a smack and Castiel’s jaw drops as his manicured hand raises to his cheek.  
  
“I'm sorry.” Sam starts to touch his face, but Castiel shrinks away.  
  
He leaves his polish open to stench up the place and passes by Dean, looking him over from top to bottom.  
It would take nothing to beat his ass into the ground.  
Still holding his face, Castiel stomps from the room like a child sent to bed without supper.  
  
Sam stands, runs both hands through his hair and sighs. “I should…”  
  
He’s about to follow Castiel, but Dean holds a hand to his chest. “Am I a rent boy to you?”  
  
Sam takes Dean’s face between his palms. "No."  
  
Dean pushes him away and retreats into the kitchen. He stands in the open door of the fridge, letting the cold air wash over him.  
  
“Dean?”  
  
Dean shakes his head, needs a moment to himself.  
  
He eats a few hands full of cold cuts, has a few apples and a glass of water. He sits on the floor in the kitchen for a while, texting nonsense with Jo and Garth.  
  
Once he gets over himself enough to come to the bedroom, Sam is naked beneath a sheet. The outline of his dick a threat and a promise. Sam’s eyes are closed, hands beneath his head, sprigs of dark hair jutting out from his armpits. The fur on his chest is a little coarse - this Dean knows from twirling his fingers in it, but only when he’s sure Sam is asleep.  
  
Sam is not asleep now. When Sam sleeps, his breath is slow and deep, like a hibernating bear. He always starts out on his stomach, his massive, nude body taking up most of the space, limbs spread out all over the place. Eventually, they wind up on Dean and anchor him to the bed.  
  
Sam opens his eyes and reaches out a hand. “Come here.”  
  
Without speaking, Dean slips out of everything but his boxers and leaves his clothes in a heap beside the bed. Sam pats his chest in an invitation for Dean to climb aboard, but Dean walks around to the other side of the bed and sits. He lays with arms folded over his chest, making sure that no part of him makes contact with Sam’s body.  
  
They lay like that for a while, with Sam breathing in and letting out long, stressed-sounding sighs. He presses his knee to Dean’s leg. Dean tenses and moves aside, maintaining the space between them.  
  
“I have to help him, and this is the best way.”  
  
“Why do you have to help him?”  
  
Sam nuzzles behind his ear. “Because he needs help and he doesn’t have anyone else.”  
  
Dean shoves him away.  
  
“Are you going to be pissed at me forever?”  
  
“I’m not pissed at you.” That's Sam’s line. Dean turns away and whispers, “I’m pissed at you.”  
  
Sam presses a hand to Dean's cheek and draws him close enough to kiss the other one. “I know it sounds crazy, but I’m doing this for us. For you and me.”  
  
“Doesn’t sound crazy,” Dean says. “Sounds like bullshit.”  
  
“It’s not. I promise. And it’s temporary.” Sam nibbles his ear. “Okay?”  
  
Dean nods so Sam will shut up about it already.  
  
“Let me see if I can make you not-pissed at me.” Sam's kiss is feather-light.  
  
Dean’s eyes flutter shut as warmth spreads south. Sam burrows his face in Dean’s neck, kissing, and licking, before he sucks - hard. Dean’s hand flies to the back of Sam’s neck. “Shit.”  
  
“Are you going to forgive me?”  
  
“Sam. It’s…” Dean stares at the ceiling. “I don’t like it, but it’s not my fucking business.”  
  
“It is.” Sam presses his soft lips to Dean’s collarbone. “It’s for us.” He licks a broad stripe over one of his nipples, then the other. “So that I can be with you.” He nips at Dean’s hip. “Only you.”  
  
Dean’s body vibrates like a tuning fork as Sam grips the base of his dick, kisses the head, then takes the whole thing slow and smooth, until his lower lip is pressed against Dean’s ball sac. Dean sits upright and grips Sam's head with both hands. He gasps, vision blurring.  
  
Sam pulls back and curls his thick tongue around the tip before he dives again. Dean groans and swipes a tear from Sam’s cheek. He shudders as spit/precum drips from the corners of Sam’s mouth. A string of it stretches between them as Sam pulls off and pumps with his hand, taking a moment to lick his lips. “I love your cock so much.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You're good at sucking it.”  
  
Sam smiles like Dean gave him a prize. As if to prove he’s earned it, he takes Dean again, moans and bobs his head, like a fucking professional. Square jaw slack, pretty mouth warm and perfect, his lips stiff, cheeks hollow.  
  
“Sweet Jesus.”  
  
Sam keeps his palm around Dean’s shaft as he comes up to ask, “Is it good?”  
  
“So fucking good.”  
  
Sam doesn’t respond to praise; he rises to it. He strains toward it like a flower seeking the sun. He sucks brutally sweet for what could be hours until he delivers Dean right to the edge. Then he pulls away, fist tight around the base of his dick.  
  
“Fuck, Sam. Why?” Dean doesn’t even care that he’s whining.  
  
“I want to ride you.”  
  
Still short of breath, Dean says, “Dude. You're too big for that shit.”  
  
“I want to try.”  
  
“It’s not going to fucking work. You’re too big.”  
  
Sam frowns like a huge, little kid and goes back to work, rolling Dean’s balls between his long fingers, nibbling up the side of his shaft, rubbing the inside of his thighs half-raw with his two-day stubble.  
  
He lifts Dean’s legs and bends to lick behind his knees. Dean would laugh if he could catch his breath. It’s weird; it shouldn’t be hot. Sam smiles and licks until Dean is wide-eyed and trembling, mouth hanging open in awe. Sam takes his ankles in his hands and opens his legs wide. Dean has held many a girl in this position, grinning down just like Sam is doing. He leans up on his elbows, preparing to protest, when Sam leans forward again.  
  
Dean drops onto his back in time for Sam to pin his feet above his head. His damp knees are pressed to his ringing ears and Sam slurps a wet-hot stripe up his crack.  
  
"Holy shit, Sam. Do that again."  
  
Sam smiles and laps over Dean’s hole, to his sac and sucks in first one nut, then the other. He jerks Dean’s dick and returns to treating his asshole like a popsicle.  
  
“Holy fuck, that's good.”  
  
“You like it?”  
  
“Ha. Oh. Ah. Yeah.”  
  
Sam licks circles around his hole and spits right onto the center. The burst of cool air and warm moisture send Dean jumping half out of his burning skin. "Fuck, yeah."  
  
Sam spits on him again and then, his finger is right. There. Dean tenses, hips moving up and away. Sam freezes, holding firm to the backs of Dean’s thighs. He looks from Dean’s hole to his face and back again, like he’s waiting for a go-ahead.  
  
Dean holds his breath.  
  
There’s no question that Castiel is down to be penetrated. That fairy must take Sam's dick like a champ. Maybe that's why Sam still wants him and why Dean's not enough.  
  
Dean can bottom. Not like he hasn't before. He never explicitly told Sam that he doesn't want to get fucked. It's true, but he's never said it, and he would take Sam’s dick, in a heartbeat. Does he want to? No. But he would.  
  
He doesn't want Sam to see him that way, which is insane if Sam wants it, but sanity isn't the point. Right now, Dean's ass is in the air and Sam is looking at him like he’s a baby bird that fell out of its nest.  
  
“You okay?”  
  
Dean nods. “You want to--”  
  
“Not until you beg me for it.” Sam releases his legs.  
  
Dean chuckles. “Ain't gonna happen.”  
  
“And that's fine, too.”  
  
Dean tries to sit up, but Sam stops him with one of those huge paws in the center of his chest. “I still want to ride you.”  
  
As he crawls up the bed to get the lube, Dean nips at his ribs. Sam settles back over his thighs, huge, gentle hand slick him up. He breathes through his mouth and lets the heat diffuse throughout his body. He runs his own hands over Sam’s flanks as he leans forward, reaches behind himself and produces a black plastic cone.  
  
“What the…”  
  
He drops the plug to the floor and flashes an ultraviolet smile. “I wanted to be ready for you.”  
  
Dean’s brain scrambles for a reply and comes up blank. Sam kisses whatever stupid look he’s making right off of his face or engraves it there permanently. Dean can’t tell. He’s holding his breath as Sam hovers over him with his insanely long legs splayed. He reaches back, holds Dean’s dick in place and tries to skewer himself on it.  
  
Up to this point, Dean has been lying still, looking back and forth between Sam’s face and his massive, fully erect and always captivating dick. It points clear up at the ceiling and he can’t help but grab it.  
  
“Stop.” Sam swats him, his expression more like someone taking a test, than getting it on.  
  
Dean doesn’t even try to contain his laughter.  
  
Sam frowns down at him. “Suggestions?”  
  
“You are way too fucking big for this.”  
  
Sam purses his lips in concentration. His knees drop to the mattress, and he leans forward. Dean takes advantage of the new position to sit up and bite his nipples.  
  
“Dean!”  
  
“Sorry.” No way he’s sorry.  
  
“Just be still.”  
  
Dean takes over holding his own dick, because if there’s one thing he can do right, it’s that. “I got it, okay. You just…”  
  
Sam lowers himself until Dean exhales at the resistance at his tip. This man is too heavy to lean on anyone this way and Dean struggles for each lungful of breath. Still, he bites his lip and lets Sam control his descent.  
  
His mouth is wide open, eyes shut tight, muscles in his face clenched. Dean stretches up to kiss him. Sam opens his eyes, as if he’s surprised to find someone below him. He smiles a little and kisses Dean a lot. He resurfaces the inside of Dean’s mouth with his tongue, sinking inch by torturous inch. Dean fists the sheets and forbids his hips to buck.  
  
Sam's tight heat around his dick, Sam’s heart banging against his chest, the pressure of his lips, the slide of his tongue: it all sets off fireworks in Dean’s chest. He gasps and struggles for control.  
  
Sam sits upright, grinning like his horse took first place. The change in angle tightens the pressure, and they both cry out. Dean grits his teeth and focuses all of his energy on not losing his shit, for once.  
  
Sam’s hands smooth down his chest. “Good?”  
  
Dean nods, appreciating air for the first time in his life.  
  
Sam starts to lift himself, but halts when Dean grabs his thighs and wheezes, “Wait.”  
  
“You okay?”  
  
“Yeah, just…” Dean exhales and tries to clear his head. He can't get there before Sam again. Reaching for something that will cool him down, he asks, “So, when’s the big day?”  
  
“Not now,” Sam pants.  
  
“I know, but when?”  
  
“I don’t want to talk about this now.” Sam rises up on his knees, then impales himself.  
  
Dean’s back lifts from the bed, mouth wide in agonized pleasure. “Holy shit, Sam.”  
  
Sam does it again, shifting and rolling his hips. He leans forward, bracing himself on the mattress. Then, he lets loose: grinding, bouncing and churning like he’s riding on that fucking mechanical bull. He groans loud, low and so dirty, Dean could bottle up the fucking sound. Also, he needs to be quiet. Castiel is in the next room, for God’s sake.  
  
“Whew. Whoa, cowboy. Slow down.” He runs his palms up and down Sam’s thighs, trying to get him to relax.  
  
“Mmm.” Sam thrashes his head back and forth. “No way. I love this.”  
  
“I’m not gonna… “ And that’s that. Sam keeps riding him like he's a bronco and Dean’s body spasms before he tenses, grabs hold of Sam’s hips and spurts up his tight ass.  
  
Sam never gets mad at him for coming so fast. He sits there, breathing hard through his smile, stroking that amazing dick of his. “God, you’re gorgeous when you come.”  
  
Dean gives himself a few moments to recover before he takes the Beast from Sam and jacks him. He swipes at the slit and uses the slick, twisting his wrist and jerking even faster. ”Come on, Sam. I want you to shoot all over me.”  
  
That seems to do something for Sam. He’s grunting louder than ever now, asshole clenching around Dean’s spent dick. Meanwhile, Dean’s mouth hadn’t run those words by his brain before he spat them out. He never wants anybody’s jizz on him. He would put that on his turn-off list right up there with gagging.  
  
And yet, he’d said it and Sam’s into it. His back is arched tight as a bow, leaning back, supporting himself with both hands on Dean’s shins - too fucking beautiful to be real. Dean runs a hand from his sternum over his taut muscles to his navel, and it doesn’t matter what Sam wants to do. If Sam wants to hang him out of a window and fuck him upside down, there isn’t any chance of Dean saying no.  
  
Sam goes rigid and shouts as he shoots. The first glob lands warm on Dean’s chest, and that’s not so bad. Then Sam becomes a howling sprinkler, sputtering, “Oh my God. Fucking God, Dean,” splashes cum all over his face.  
  
Dean’s eyes shut just in time. He can’t help but chuckle. He wipes away the spunk on his upper lip, while Sam uses his thumbs to clear Dean’s eyelids. “Impressive.”  
  
“Are you okay?” He’s still winded.  
  
“I’m fine. You trying to blind me?”  
  
Sam laughs. “That was so hot.” He leans down for a kiss, and Dean sighs as he slips from Sam’s heat.  
  
“Don’t move.” Sam hops up and sprints from the room.  
  
They had burned through the unscented baby wipes in his bedside table. Dean snickers a little, remembering that they have a guest. Then, he remembers that HE is the guest.  
  
He shuts his eyes against the hardening in his gut. His veins are full of cooling lava, leaving his insides charred and stiff.  
  
As soon as Sam returns, Dean asks, “So?”  
  
Sam winces, but nods already knowing the question. “I’ve got to find Ruby first.”  
  
He sits on the side of the bed and makes a ritual of wiping Dean's face, leaving fragrant traces of lavender goat milk soap on his skin.  
  
Sam sponges down Dean’s chest before cleaning his limp dick. He places the rag on his night stand, snuggles in beside Dean and tucks his arms around him. Once he’s good and cozy, he mumbles against his neck. “I don’t know if the court does it or if I have to hire a PI or what? She'll sign it, just, I have no idea where she is. Her parents were in Florida last time we talked, so I guess I’ll start there.”  
  
Dean pats the hand on his chest. “Dude, you know she’s on Facebook, right?”  
  
“What?” Sam sits up.  
  
“How have you not looked on Facebook?”  
  
“I’m not really into that.”  
  
“Come on, Sam. They got fucking Easter Island tribesman on there. How are you not on Facebook?”  
  
“I was for a little while. Castiel hacked into my account a few years ago and it just … I don’t have a lot of friends anyway. It’s not my thing.”  
  
Dean shivers and wiggles under the blanket. “Yeah, well, your ex is on there. She’s pretty hot.”  
  
“You’ve seen her?”  
  
Dean shuts his trap. He hadn’t planned to tell Sam he had checked her out. It had just been that thing: that irrational terror that Sam had ever wanted someone else more than him. It’s nuts. That didn’t stop him from spending an hour on her profile.  
  
“Show me.”  
  
“You’re not pissed?”  
  
In answer, Sam hops out of bed again and runs from the room buck naked. He returns with his laptop and watches Dean navigate to Facebook. He hadn’t tried to Friend Ruby or anything weird. He’d just spent an embarrassing amount of time checking out her pictures and judging her lame posts.  
  
It's like Sam has never heard of the Internet before. Dean plants the computer on his lap and pulls a pair of sweatpants from his middle drawer. He ties the drawstring and still, they sag so low that he has to stop every few seconds to pull them up. But jeans would be a pain to put on, and it calms the nervous flutter in his chest,  to be wearing Sam’s clothing. “Going to the kitchen. You want anything?”  
  
Sam shakes his head without even looking up from the screen.  
  
Dean nods and makes his way down the hall. He can’t stay in the room, watching Sam’s reactions to seeing his FUCKING WIFE for the first time in half a decade. No light shines from under the guest door; Castiel must have slept through Sam’s animal noises.  
  
That’s something. If Dean never sees that guy’s face again, it’ll be too soon. He breaks up some of the tension in his body and takes his mind off this whole stupid Ruby/Castiel thing by singing the first thing that comes to his mind:  
  
Soy un perdedor  
I’m a loser, baby  
So why don’t you kill me?  
  
It’s not exactly heart lifting, but it’s on topic.  
  
Dean is spreading mayonnaise on whole wheat bread when a prickly chin presses against the nape of his neck. Everything about it is wrong, but it isn’t until ice-cold hands snake around his chest that Dean spins on his heels, holding the butter knife like an oath. “Dude. Don’t fuck with me.”  
  
Castiel smiles like a rat. “Hohoho. Aren’t you a little ruffian? About what I figured. I can see why Sammy thinks that’s fun.” He reaches around and tries to lodge his fingers in Dean’s crack, laughing when Dean shoves him away. “Still sore?”  
  
He’s not wearing a stitch of clothes and Dean makes a point of not checking him out. He keeps his eyes glued to the guy’s annoying, cute face. Castiel leans with one elbow on the counter and runs the same finger he tried stick down Dean’s pants over his bread then sticks it in his mouth. “You may not know this - then, again, you might. In a pinch, mayo is a pretty decent lube. How much do you have to use, kitten, to fit all of Sam? That cock is a miracle, isn't it?”  
  
Dean grips his knife tighter, but doesn’t move to keep himself from murdering Castiel.  
  
“Why don’t you make me a sandwich, sphinx?” Castiel brushes his cold fingers down Dean’s arm.  
  
Dean pushes him again, even as the goose bumps pop out over his skin. “Make your own fucking sandwich.”  
  
“So rude.” Castiel pouts and steals a slice of Dean’s meat. “Didn’t you ever go to kindergarten? You have to learn how to share. I’m sharing, aren’t I? Sharing my Sammy with you? Being way too fucking generous…” His tone shifts from playful to menacing. “What are you really after? Hm? His money? Is that what you want?”  
  
“I’m telling you right now. Back away from me, man.” Every muscle in Dean’s body is coiled and ready to spring.  
  
“Did you know that Sam hasn’t had a television in over five years? Is that your candy? They don’t have HBO at the shelter, do they?”  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
“Who wouldn’t spread their legs for a little Game of Thrones?” Castiel takes a step back and cocks his head like he’s studying a lizard at the zoo. “You’re wondering how I know? Your clothes are clean. Teeth brushed. Tail all bushy, coat shiny. Only a few bruises.”  
  
Dean swats away the hand that tries to touch his face.  
  
“You can take the urchin out of the street and what do you have? A dirty little street kid, in clean clothes, with that same hungry-hungry look on his sad, homeless face.” Castiel plucks Dean in the center of his forehead.  
  
It’s the last straw. In one fluid motion, Dean hooks his elbow around Castiel’s neck and holds the tip of the butter knife at his temple. This is as close as he’s ever come to killing someone and the most he’s ever wanted to. Dean’s heart pounds in his ears, and he presses the steel against pale skin. It would be so easy to jam it in and watch this asshole die.  
  
At Sam's approach, he shoves Castiel to the floor. The guy scrambles to his feet before Sam enters the kitchen, steps back and lowers his gaze, as if he’s contemplating Dean’s bare feet.  
  
Sam glances between them like an angry parent deciding which of his naughty children to scold first. “Is he talking to you?”  
  
Dean shakes his head, holding the knife behind his back.  
  
“Castiel, go to sleep.” Sam tosses over his shoulder.  
  
“Yes, master.” Castiel bows and slinks from the room.  
  
Sam rolls his eyes and holds out his palm. “You coming to bed?”  
  
“Yeah.” Dean drops the plate in the sink and tosses the sandwich, appetite obliterated.  
  
Sam walks behind him, massaging his shoulders, kissing them.  
  
“Night, lovebirds,” Castiel chirps as they pass the guest room.  
  
Back in bed, Dean scratches behind his ear. “He’s just cool now?”  
  
“Castiel is a very… capricious person.”  
  
“That’s what you like?”  
  
Sam rolls on top of him. “I like you.”  
  
Dean forces a small smile. “Why does he call me a sphinx? Isn't that that thing in Egypt?”  
  
Sam closes his eyes and sighs. “It’s a stupid joke.”  
  
“You two are telling jokes about me?”  
  
“No. Cas…” Sam’s brow furrows, but he gives up trying to explain. “Look, what he said, before … Have you ever --”  
  
“I'm not talking about that, Sam. You got all kinds of shit you don't want to talk about. So do I.”  
  
“You can ask me anything.” Sam’s gaze hardens as if he’s bracing himself for a barrage of questions.  
  
At the moment, Dean only has one. “How the hell did you wind up with this guy?” His throat threatens to close around the words.  
  
“Short version? He was my wife’s dance instructor.” It takes a long time for him to gather the rest of the statement. “He wasn't like this at first.”  
  
“They never are.” Dean rubs his eye in a way he hopes looks more sleepy than sad. “That’s the kind of guy you like? You know, Fruity Pebbles.”  
  
“I like a lot of different things.”  
  
“But, you just couldn’t resist him? Had to have it?” Dean says, doing his best to keep the torment out of his voice.  
  
“No. I never went after any guy, ever. Cas is the first man who ever came on to me.” Sam rolls onto his side and drops his face onto Dean’s shoulder. He wraps his arm around him and strokes his back until his hand lands, warm and heavy at the crest of his ass. “Do you have any idea how lucky you are?”  
  
Lucky to be here, like this, in Sam’s arms? Damn straight, but Dean has to argue to save face, when it occurs to him, that it’s the kind of thing he would say, not Sam. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Your mother gives you a hard time about me - and she probably should. But she knows, you know. You don’t have to hide.”  
  
Dean nudges Sam’s hair aside, so there’s a patch of forehead to kiss. “You don’t have to hide either.”  
  
He scoffs at that. “When did you come out to her?”  
  
“We're not all weird about sex like most people. It’s just a thing, you know?”  
  
“So, why didn't you tell her … what happened.” Sam looks up with this apologetic expression, like he’s atoning for all assholes everywhere.  
  
"That's different. I was a little kid. He was her fucking boyfriend. I didn't want her to think I ... it's not like I hopped up in his lap, you know?”  
  
“Do you want to tell me about it?” Sam whispers against his cheek.  
  
Dean shakes his head. He’s never telling anybody that shit as long as he lives.

 

~

  
  
_“Go get me a beer, kid.”_  
  
_Dean rolled his eyes. He was watching the damn game, too. But it was just a commercial, so he scooted and did what Marc said._  
  
_His mother’s latest boyfriend was far from the worst. For one thing, he never hit either one of them. Just that afternoon, he'd spent ten whole minutes behind their apartment tossing the ratty baseball Dean had found to him while he worked his way through a cigarette._  
  
_The pee-smelling old lady across the hall had been hanging up her clothes at the time. She smiled and said something about Marc being proud when his son was in the World Series. Marc hadn’t even corrected her. He had just smiled and ruffled Dean’s hair._  
  
_It wasn’t a hardship getting the guy a beer. He was okay._  
  
_From the kitchen, he heard the jingle on this commercial that he loved and couldn’t help dancing his way back to the sofa. He laughed when he realized Marc was watching him and played it up a little, waving his arms up and down like snakes, swinging his hips like this lady he had seen with a fruit basket on her head. It was hilarious._  
  
_Marc took his bottle and watched Dean with this weird look on his face. When the commercial was over, he said, “Come here.”_  
  
_Jody had a thing for military guys. Marc was no exception. His voice was this low, commanding rumble. In this particular instance, though, it was quieter than usual. Tender in a way Dean hadn’t heard him speak before. “Do that again.”_  
  
_“What?” Dean stood before him, pulling at the fraying hem of his t-shirt._  
  
_“Your little dance.”_  
  
_Dean snickered and made a face. “I don’t remember what I did anymore.”_  
  
_“Yeah, you do.” Marc nodded. “It was good. Come on. I’ll give you some.”_  
  
_Dean did a less enthusiastic version of his moves; it wasn’t the same without the music. As promised, Marc cracked open his bottle and offered a swig. Dean reached for the bottle, but Marc held it away, insisting he control it while Dean drank. Marc’s other hand was big and clammy on the back of Dean’s neck, supporting him as he tipped his head back for his first ever pull of beer._  
  
_He let the awful, bitter stuff dribble back into the bottle and then wiped off his tongue with the back of his hand. Marc laughed._  
  
_“How do you drink that?”_  
  
_“It’ll grow on you.”_  
  
_Dean shook his head and moved to sit back down. Marc stopped him with one hand on his hip. Dean stared at the veins popping out of his muscley arms._  
  
_“You want to touch?”_  
  
_He shook his head._  
  
_“Yeah, you do.” Marc took a drink and flexed his bicep in front of Dean’s face. “Go on._  
  
_Dean pressed one of the veins with his pointer finger. It squashed down and popped up every time he did that. Then he curled his hand around the thick muscle. Marc grinned. “God, you're pretty. You know that?”_  
  
_“I'm not pretty. Girls are pretty.”_  
  
_“You’re pretty as any girl I ever saw.” Marc took his chin between his thumb and forefinger, hand stinking of stale cigarette._  
  
_Something happened in Dean’s stomach at the compliment and the contact. Something like riding a roller coaster. He couldn’t decide whether he liked it or hated it._  
  
_Marc twisted and tied up Dean’s shirt, so it was like the little bras the Cowboy cheerleaders wore. He poked the cold mouth of his bottle into Dean’s belly button and laughed when he gasped._  
  
_Dean looked down at his new outfit and shook his head. “Still not a girl.”_  
  
_“No?” Marc's forehead wrinkled. “How we gonna fix that?”_  
  
_Dean tried again to take his seat on the other end of the sofa._  
  
_“Sit down here.” Marc was pointing to sit on the floor between his legs._  
  
_Couldn't hurt anything, as long as Dean could go back to watching the game. Marc drank his beer, stroking his fingers through Dean’s hair. He pressed his warm hand against Dean’s ear and encouraged him to rest his cheek against his even warmer thigh._  
  
_Jody was never all that affectionate. It was weird and kind of wonderful to have someone touching him, even if he was being treated like a dog. On the next commercial, Marc spoke in that soft version of his voice again. “You know what we could do? We could pretend. You like to pretend, don't you? Always acting like you're an astronaut or something.”_  
  
_Dean nodded. His eyes had slipped shut during the last quarter._  
  
_“You can be the little girl, and I'll be the daddy. That sound like fun?”_  
  
_It didn’t sound like fun. It sounded stupid. Dean shrugged._  
  
_“It’s gonna be fun. Watch. You’ll be my little girl, and you're going to do everything I say, right?”_  
  
_Dean kept his eyes on the TV, still sleepy, but also with this odd tightening in his stomach._  
  
_“What's your name gonna be? Hm.” Marc’s hand was on his neck. “What name do you like?”_  
  
_There was this girl in Dean’s class who was already sprouting boobs. She was a walking miracle, as far as he was concerned. Dean said her name because he was always thinking about her anyway._  
  
_“I like that.” Marc stroked his hair back from his face. “Such a good girl, Kimmy.”_  
  
_He kept saying it. The whole time. Good girl, Kim. That’s my good girl._  
  
_“Come on, Kimmy. Eat up. It's good for you. What, you don't believe me? Lots of protein. Make you grow big and strong, like me.” Marc wiped a finger down Dean’s nose and stuck it in his mouth, dripping with that awful stuff that had come out of him. “There you go. That's my good girl.”_  
  
_The next time his mom worked late, Dean stayed in his room, drawing cars. There was a knock on his door, but no lock. He didn’t move or say anything when Marc came in. He didn’t even budge when a plastic shopping bag landed on his bed._  
  
_“You don’t want to see what I got you?”_  
  
_A crisp, white baseball, still in the packaging, never been touched or kicked in a gutter. Dean didn’t even realize his hand was moving towards it until Marc snatched it up. “Uh-uh. Girls don’t play baseball.”_  
  
_He watched while Dean put on the headband, the pink skirt, and the white ruffle socks. He needed help with the training bra, and Marc painted on the lipstick. Then Marc had picked him up like a princess and carried him to the bigger bedroom he shared with Jody to stand him up in front of the only mirror in the apartment._  
  
_Dean stared at his reflection, but it couldn’t be himself he was looking at. It was a different person. A girl. A pretty one._  
  
_"Good girl," Marc chanted. "Good girl, Kim." Squirted that cold stuff on him. “So wet for me.” “Won’t hurt” But it did. Hurt bad.“You can take it, big girl.” Hot hands on her back. Nasty ashtray smell stinking up the air until Kim buried her face in the warm puddle on her pillow._

 

~

 

  
  
Most of the time, Dean doesn’t think about it. It was like something he had seen in a movie. Like it had happened to some fictional character.  
  
“I told you before, my mom had a boyfriend who messed with me. I don't know what else you want me to say.”  
  
Sam nods. “Something similar happened to Cas.”  
  
“I'm not like him.”  
  
“No, you’re not. I just thought you should know, you’re not the only person who ever went through…”  
  
Dean glares at Sam for a moment. He means well; he’s just clueless. “If Jody had been there, she would have said I asked for it.”  
  
“Why would she ever say that? How could she think that? You were a little kid.” Sam cradles Dean’s head in his hand, tracing his cheekbone with his thumb.  
  
Dean wants to shove him away, make Sam stop coddling him. “Because I…” Dean clears his throat. “A lot of people think I'm like that. I kind of am, I guess.”  
  
“You mean, you like attention?” That thumb trails back and forth, slow and hypnotic. “There's nothing wrong with that.”  
  
Dean’s body flushes warm at the kindness in Sam’s eyes. “Doesn’t really match, though. Me and you.”  
  
“I disagree.” Sam kisses him. “I think we’re like night and day.”  
  
Dean chuckles. “Is that why you never want anyone to see us together. Because you hate the attention?”  
  
“I don't want you to get hurt because of me.”  
  
“Nobody's going to…” Dean stops before he finishes the untrue statement.  
  
“Yeah. It's already happened once.”  
  
“That? That was awesome.”  
  
“I hated every second of it.” Sam’s eyes darken. “And I don't want anything like it to happen again.”  
  
“Bring on the haters, man. I love to brawl.”  
  
“I noticed.” Sam traces Dean’s eyebrow with the tip of his finger.  
  
“It's like ball, you know. Without the rules. Cathartic.”  
  
Sam's eyes flick up.  
  
“You like that? Vocab gets you hot?” Dean laughs. Sam’s got some wierd kinks.  
  
“You know how I feel about a smart jock.” Sam leans close to his ear. “You know, you're kind of perfect.”  
  
“Just kind of?”  
  
Sam laughs and kisses his shoulder.  
  
“You gonna be mad if I don’t want to be there?”  
  
“I need you to be there.” Sam presses up against him, slotting his soft dick against Dean’s ass. “I need to be able to look into your incredible eyes and know that you know that I’m yours.”  
  
Dean’s body tingles everywhere Sam touches him.  
  
“Because I am. You know that, right?”  
  
It sounds good, but Sam was like this with Castiel, too. From the beginning, Dean has known that his days with Sam are numbered. Now his number's up and he’s too tired to argue about it. “You think he’s going to wear a white dress?”  
  
“Wouldn’t surprise me, actually.”  
  
“Bet he’d look pretty hot, too.”  
  
Sam’s chuckle sounds as much like relief as amusement. And exhaustion. They both need to sleep.

 

***

Dean’s eyes open and he confirms that there is a knock on the door in real life, not just in his dream. He groans and starts to get up. Sam stills him with a hand on his chest and looks at his phone.

Dean yawns and grumbles, “Time is it?”

“Two.”

In the dim light, Dean watches Sam step into that pair of dark blue silk pajama pants. “Who do you think it is?”

“Neighbors? I don’t know.” Sam shrugs and goes to answer the door.

Since he’s awake anyway, Dean drags himself out of bed and to the can. He grins as he hides behind the door so that he can pounce on Sam when he gets back.

***

  
  
They both flash their badges, but only the shorter man speaks, “I'm Officer Riley. This is Martez. You the homeowner?”  
  
“Yes, sir,” Sam answers, his heart audible down the hall.  
  
“Mind if we come in?”  
  
“‘Course.” Sam steps aside, makes space for them to enter and wills himself not to glance towards his bedroom.  
  
One officer peers into the dark living room. Every slight, calculated movement winds up his nerves.  
  
“Anyone else home?”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
“Mind if we talk to them?”  
  
Sam clears his throat. “Everyone's asleep.”  
  
“Won't be more than a second.”  
  
There couldn’t be a worse moment for Dean to lean his head out of Sam’s door. He’s shirtless in a pair of the black briefs Sam bought him for his birthday. The rest of Sam’s life flashing before him sounds like the slamming of prison doors.  
  
“Hey, buddy,” the shorter officer, Riley, says with an insidious and false smile.  
  
Dean shakes his head. “Wrong guy.”  
  
Officer Martez is an olive-skinned man, Dean’s height, but of stockier build. He is quiet and unimposing. “What's your name?”  
  
“Mike,” Dean says without seeming to think about it.  
  
“How old are you, Mike?”  
  
“18.” He lies so effortlessly Sam’s eyebrows shoot up.  
  
“Got any ID?”  
  
“Nope.” Dean juts his chin toward the ceiling.  
  
He could tone down the defiance for Sam's taste.  
  
Riley looks him over and gets right in his face. He has to look up to meet Dean's eyes. “Well, looks like we crashed a slumber party. What you boys been up to?”  
  
Sam doesn’t open his dry mouth for fear he’ll be up to his knees in vomit if he does.  
  
Dean answers, “Slumbering,” and steps up beside Sam. He’s close enough to touch, but thank God, he doesn’t.  
  
“So, let me guess. Cousins?” Riley grins and gestures between them. “Of the kissing variety.”  
  
“That’s none of your fucking business.” Dean shoots off.  
  
Sam closes his eyes and covers his own mouth with his hand.  
  
“You're awful defensive there, Mike.” Even though he’s a few inches shorter than Dean, everyone in the room is aware of the government-issue Glock 22 on Officer Riley's hip.  
  
“Pretty banged up there, too, huh?” Martez points to Sam's knuckles. “This guy been knocking you around?”  
  
“No,” Dean says “Hell, no! If you guys don't have a warrant or something--”  
  
“We got an anonymous tip,” Riley counters, chest poked out.  
  
“Tip about what?” Dean asks.  
  
“That your mute friend here might be sodomizing a minor.”  
  
Jelly legs: that's a thing. Sam’s knees nearly go out from under him. He coughs out an anguished laugh.  
  
Dean sneers. “Well, I don’t blame you for rushing over here. You catch something like that, it ought to keep you in spank material for weeks, little man.”  
  
Riley's palm hovers over his taser. Martez calls his name like he’s calming an attack dog.  
  
“Yeah, Riley.” Dean spits. “You better step off before your girlfriend has to watch you get your little ass kicked.”  
  
Sam has seen Dean fight. The kid has to know it's coming. Even for Sam, it happens in slow motion. Dean takes the sucker punch to the gut, doubling over with a breathy groan. Before he can recover, Riley has shoved him onto his face on the floor.   
  
“Hey! Hey! That's not necessary.” Operating on instinct rather than judgment, Sam moves to intervene.  
  
Martez draws his weapon. “Back the fuck up!”  
  
Riley digs a knee into the back of Dean’s legs, jerks his arms behind his back to strap on plastic restraints explaining why he's being detained.

"Fuck you." Dean struggles and earns another cuff to the head.  
  
Sam’s heart slams against his chest and he raises his hands, helpless. The officer keeps his gun trained on his chest. Dean spits blood onto the floor as Riley jostles him toward the door.  
  
“Wait. Wait.” Sam scrambles for a handle on the situation. "Can I get his clothes?”  
  
Martez escorts Sam to his bedroom. Out of nerves and force of habit, Sam starts to fold Dean’s jeans.  
  
“Just hand ‘em over,” the officer snaps. “I hope for your sake his age checks out, or we will be back.”

 

***

 

“You know, you don’t have to be such a dick.” The Arab-looking cop says as he leads Dean to the patrol car.

“I think we’ve already established that I like dick.”

The guy shakes his head. “We're out here to protect your ass.”

Or maybe he’s Latino. Dean doesn’t give a fuck. “My ass is fine.”

“So, what's the deal?” At least the cop takes off the cuffs before he opens the back seat and hands Dean his clothes. “That guy pick you up somewhere, offer you some money, kick you around a little bit? You tell us what’s up and we can get somebody to bring him in tonight?”

There’s no point trying to convince anybody. Everyone makes their own assumptions anyway. “Just a guy who saw me sleeping on a bench and offered me a place.”

“Modern day Good Samaritan?” The other pig, Riley, had wanted to arrest Dean for disorderly conduct. Asshole. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. “A Samaritan.”

“No strings, Pinoke?” Martez glances over his shoulder.

“No fucking strings. Just a nice guy.”

“So, why are you half naked?” Riley asks.

“Because we were fucking. The last time I checked, that's not illegal.”

“Ten minutes across the border it is,” the dickhead says. For flavor, he adds, “little faggot.”

“Riley, chill,” Martez says. “In Missouri, legality depends on how old you are.”

“I already told you that.”

“Yeah, we’ll see,” Riley says.

Martez looks back at Dean. “Why were you sleeping on a bench? Trouble at home?”

Dean stares out of the window, counting streetlamps to keep himself cool. “Just needed a fucking break. My mom's a bitch.”

"Because she doesn't want you out sucking dicks?"

"Riley. Drive."

 

***

 

Sam stands in the doorway, body shaking, reeling on his feet, paralyzed by uncertainty about what to do. When he steps back into his apartment, Cas peeks out of the door to the guest room.

“You did this?”

“He's not good for you.”

Sam runs his hands down his face. “My God.” 

Castiel tries to touch him and Sam yanks his arm away to keep from striking out.

“He would let you fuck him and then slit your throat in the night to steal your watch. I have known kids like that, Sam. You’re not safe with him.”

Speechless, Sam shakes his head, retreats to his room and shuts the door. It takes him two minutes to dress, grab his keys and leave.

 

***

 

When they arrive at the station, Martez sends Dean to dress in the bathroom. The next step is fingerprinting and attempts to confirm his ID. Dean climbs onto the trashcan and slips out of the window. It’s a two story drop and his left ankle buckles when he lands. He swears and hobbles down the alley. Thank God for Sam thinking of his clothes and the fact that his cell is still in his back pocket.

Jody answers on the first ring. “Dean?”

“Hey.”

“Where are you?” Her voice is soft, like she’s afraid to scare him off.

“Um. Hold up. Let me get to the intersection.”

The phone beeps: an incoming call. That makes the ninth attempt from Sam. He ignores it and keeps moving.

“You’re all right?”

“I might have a pig tail, but otherwise fine. If you could hurry up, that’d be awesome.” The station is behind him, which is where it needs to stay.

“Stay outside and keep moving. Circle the block. I’ll call when I’m close.”

“Not my first rodeo,” he says, but it's good to hear her voice. “I’m sticking closer than they’d expect, so seriously, hurry up.”

“Smart.”

He tells her where he is and that if he gets the sense that someone’s coming after him, he’ll check back in with new coordinates. Chances are, though, Riley and Martez have bigger fish to fry than some big-mouthed kid. The most important thing is that he’s thrown them off Sam’s scent.

Dean limps around the block,  his eyes peeled in the dark. The phone buzzes in his pocket, again. He sighs and answers it. “Dude. You need to stop calling this number. They check your phone records and … fuck.”

Dean wipes his mouth. The trail they’ve left with their text and call history alone... Would it help anything to burn the phones? “We need to stop talking.”

“Dean, are you in there?”

“In where?” A gray Prius is rolling past the station.

No other cars are on the road, so Dean waves his hands until Sam pulls up beside him. “Get in.”

“Are you fucking crazy? What are you doing here?” 

“I'm not going to just leave you… They let you go?”

“Sam, those pigs wanted to book you. You’re on their fucking radar now.” Dean backs up from his window and runs his hand through his hair. “You being here is extremely stupid.”

There’s a muffled sound down the alley. Probably a cat jumping on a box, but Dean turns to look anyway.

“You taking that heat was stupid,” Sam says.

“I know how to deal with cops. When’s the last time you were arrested?”

Sam doesn’t have an answer for that one.

“Exactly. Now, get the fuck out of here.” Dean points up the street, in the opposite direction of the police station. “Jody’s coming.”

“Let me drive you home.”

“No. We need to … Just … Go home, okay?” He leans into the passenger window and whisper-shouts. “I’m not trying to get you fucking locked up, okay? Now, would you please, go home.”

“You don’t even have on any shoes.”

“Cops have ‘em.” Unfortunately, they were the good shoes from Sam’s dad, not the worn-out Chucks that pinch his toes, but it was like a fox chewing off its foot to escape a trap - a small sacrifice for freedom.

“Get in the car,” Sam says. “Wait with me, until your mom comes.”

“No.” Dean pushes back off the car unable to swallow. The party’s over and this is the last goodbye. “No. Get out of here.”


	22. Chapter 22

Sam stares up at his building, but sees only red. His knuckles blanch from their death grip on the steering wheel. The lights are on in his apartment, but he can’t go inside now. Maybe he should never go back because he’s not sure what he’ll do the next time he sees Castiel. 

“How did you meet this guy?” Dean asked.

“Short version? He was Ruby’s dance instructor,” Sam had answered.

The long version began six years ago, with Sam naked in bed beside his stunning wife.

He let her kiss him, tucked his thigh between her legs and let her writhe, using his body for her pleasure. His hand rested on the small of her back, an encouragement, but she sighed and stilled. Sam wiped her dark hair out of her face and apologized, again.

In the beginning, he could close his eyes and his body would react to her touch so he could give her what she needed. As time went on, it became more challenging to get himself there, no matter who or what he imagined. Sam closed his eyes and shook his head.

“It’s okay. Sam.” She kissed him. “You’re under a lot of stress right now. I know that.”

That much was true. Sam had done little more than train and sleep since they’d relocated to Pittsburgh. It was good that Ruby could blame this on that.

“What we need,” she said, “is something we do for fun, just for us. “

 

***

 

“Wow.”

Sam’s face warmed at the word being used to describe him; his shaft twitched at the source. In the wall length mirrors, he tracked the fluid movements of the dark-haired man who skulked around his body, appraising Sam as if he were on an auction block.

“Ru-baby, you have been holding out. Then again, if I had something like this at home I'd chain it to the bed and never, ever let it see the light of day.”

The man ogled him like he was a piece of meat and Sam had no problem with it. He loved it, and that was the problem. His heart raced, he struggled to keep his breath even. Ruby and the other women laughed at the spectacle their dance teacher was creating, but they might as well have melted through the hardwood floor for as much as Sam cared. As long as he stood still, the focus would remain on his face and not on the stiffy straining against the zipper of his jeans. He gave a tortured chuckle while the man completed his orbit.

Moon-white skin, hair like a starless night and a flawless ass that had been poured into periwinkle leather pants. Sam bit his cheek, face flushing as the beautiful creature squeezed  his bicep and raised his brow in approval. Sam's lips parted, and he snapped them shut.

Ruby grinned like it was prime time television. “Sam, this is Castiel Novak.”

Sam had already figured that this was the Cas of whom his wife so often spoke. Ruby got everything from fashion tips to sex advice from her dance instructor. He was even knowledgeable about women's health issues. The Legend of Castiel, as narrated by Ruby, was that he had performed on Broadway until a torn meniscus rewrote his destiny. Now he was teaching ballet, tap, modern and ballroom dancing for couples.

Ruby talked about him so much, Sam already knew the man. 

"Pleasure."

Castiel answered Sam's outstretched hand with an unabashed gaze at his crotch. "I just bet."

Ruby laughed and rested her hand on Sam's arm. “I told you, he's harmless.”

“Talking about me? I love it.” Castiel smiled at Ruby and offered Sam a limp-wristed handshake that was more stereotypically feminine than his wife’s.

Sam cleared his throat and ignored the heat rising in his chest. It was harder to overlook Cas wetting his lips, or how his steel blue eyes watched Sam’s mouth. “Ruby tells us you play catch for a living.”

Sam chuckled. “Something like that.” He nodded more than was necessary. 

It was stupid, but he couldn't stop himself.

“Have you ever taken a dance class, Sammy? Some athletes swear by it.”

“No, I never have.” Sam shook his head, scratched the back of his neck and began searching for the nearest exit.

“That's all right. I'm plenty experienced for the both of us.” Castiel’s smirk should have been illegal. 

The acts it brought to Sam’s mind were prohibited in parts of the world.

Five minutes into the class, he had learned the true meaning of the word excruciating. The hour would consist of trying not to watch Castiel while imitating his every movement. Keeping his eyes on the female instructor wouldn't work because Sam was supposed to be mimicking Cas' steps. 

Fat chance of that, too. Sam had always danced like there was a pole up his ass. That fact had never bothered him. He'd have been happier to sit in the corner, jerking off while Castiel tapped his foot, scratched his head, or checked his watch. The guy was twenty different kinds of sexy, no matter what he was doing.

When he couldn't bear it anymore, Sam excused himself to the bathroom and shook his head at the sweaty freak in the mirror. 

Water. 

Castiel moved like water. 

Fuck.

Sam splashed water on his face, zipped down his fly and stepped in front of the urinal.

He'd never had true sympathy for the gazelles in those nature documentaries before the moment Castiel stepped into that bathroom. He glanced over his shoulder, body instantly overheated as he shook off his cock and started to put himself away. Before he had zipped his fly, Castiel shoved up behind him, forcing Sam to brace himself on the wall to avoid falling forward.

“I read an article about you. The squeaky clean All-American.”

For some reason, Sam kept his back turned and allowed his chest to be pawed, as if ignoring to face this predator would make him less real.

“Do I make you curious, Sammy?” The cocky smile saturated Castiel’s voice. “You think I can dirty you up?”

“No.” Sam breathed the word as Castiel grabbed his rigid cock.

"Oh, my. You're proportionate, aren't you?” Castiel rubbed his face between Sam’s shoulder blades and began to jerk him at a relentless pace.

“What are you…” Sam gasped and fought for some semblance of control.

“Know how I know you're interested, Sam?”

Sam shook his head, burning despite the cold tile beneath his hands and cheek. He was in abler hands than he’d ever been, couldn't even handle himself that well. Wave after wave of white hot pleasure coursed through him as Castiel reduced him to a quaking, whimpering mess.

“A strictly straight boy would have kicked my ass the moment I looked at his cock.”

Sam's knees weakened. He panted for air as Castiel stripped his shaft without an ounce of mercy.

“That good, Sammy? Huh? Yeah. It's good, isn't it? Look at you, being so still for me. What a good boy you are.”

Sam cried out and splattered his release against the urinal wall. He crumbled forward, eyes shielded by his forearm, while he struggled to regain his composure. Then he turned to face Castiel, even if he was still unable to meet the man's eyes.

The dance teacher stepped away and hummed as he licked Sam’s slick from his fingers. He snickered and left Sam alone to deal with himself.

Sam’s head spun, pulse raced. He could spend the remaining half hour hiding out in the bathroom. Or if Ruby asked, he'd blame his ruddy face and elevated pulse on the dancing. After an additional five minutes of an internal pep talk, he practiced a smile in the mirror and returned to the studio.

The moment he walked back in, Castiel called him forward to demonstrate the kick-ball-chain step they had learned. Sam declined and lowered his heating face. Ruby, however, pushed him forward while the rest of the class clapped with what they would call encouragement, but  amounted to peer pressure. Once again, the women did a poor job hiding laughter behind their hands. All the men raised their brows and looked relieved not to be the one on display.

Castiel wrapped his hands around Sam’s hips and swayed him side to side. “You have to relax. That’s the whole secret. You let go and let your body do what it’s meant to do.” Castiel pushed gently as if he was just limbering Sam’s hips instead of publicly claiming him and sending his body temperature into feverish territory. “Just like that. Good. Do you recognize this man, Ruby?”

She laughed and clapped with the rest of the class, like Cas had turned water to wine instead of merely getting a football player to dance. But none of them knew like Sam did that this man was capable of miracles. What Sam didn't know at the time was that if he followed this man, he would end his days upside on a cross.

***

Sam pushed Ruby’s hair from her sleeping face and muttered an apology. Whenever he had seen those guys in the movies, sneaking out to cheat on their wives, he’d looked down his nose. He'd never be that kind of sleazeball. It curdled his blood, but there wasn’t a force in Heaven or Hell that could have changed his trajectory.

The mat outside of Castiel’s apartment read 'FUCK OFF!' Sam turned his back to the door, scrubbed his hands over his face, and walked back down the hall, cursing himself the entire way.

Fifteen minutes later, he was standing inside leering at Castiel's slim, angular body in a midnight blue, Chinese silk robe. Sam could only identify the music coming through the speakers as opera. The voices soared and caressed some nerve he never knew he possessed. Until then, he'd always listened to whatever was popular without caring who any of the bands were. This music seeped through his skin and liquified his bones.

Castiel brought him a tumbler of bourbon, grinned and disappeared down a hallway. Less than a minute later, his voice rang out across the apartment and over the singing. “You just gonna stand there with your mouth hanging open?”

As much as he could have used the liquid courage, Sam left the drink on the coffee table. When he reached the door Castiel had entered, the older man turned and held out his hand. “Come here. Feel how soft this is.”

Floating more than walking, Sam crossed the threshold into Castiel’s room. He rubbed the smooth fabric between his thumb and forefinger. Castiel pinched his chin, and Sam’s breath caught in his throat like he’d never been touched in his life.

“Such a handsome boy, Sam. You ever play doctor with little Davey across the street?”

Sam shook his head.

“Never had a secret boyfriend?”

Sam swallowed. The shaking of his head was voluntary, but he had no control over the way the rest of his body trembled.

“No?” Castiel popped the first button on his shirt. “You ever want to?”

Sam inhaled until he thought his lungs would burst.

A wicked smile spread over Castiel’s face as he unfastened the next button with both hands. “So, what do you want to do to me?”

Sam couldn’t have spoken, even if he’d known what to say.

“Do you want to fuck me, Sam?”

He nodded, reduced to little more than a speechless, dry mouth, and a weeping cock.

Castiel brought Sam's sweaty palms to the sash of his robe. Obeying the silent command to untie it earned him a word of praise that swelled his pride and his dick even more. With an  elegant roll of his shoulders, the fabric pooled around Cas' ivory feet.

Sam was more than familiar with the sleek musculature of running backs and the powerful physiques of the blockers - all alluring in their own way. Being in the locker room was akin to starving at a smorgasbord, where he was neither allowed to touch nor look too long, lest the food rise up and kick his ass.

Castiel was a different breed of beautiful. His dancer’s body was sleek lines and exquisitely formed limbs that Sam longed to lick. His fingers ached to tangle in that thick, ink-black hair. Sam drank in ocean-blue eyes and the simpering mouth. 

He had waited his entire life, never expecting this moment to actually come. In fact, on the day he married Ruby, he'd resigned himself to the idea that hers would be the second and last body he ever entered. He would die never having a man.

Castiel’s erection strained against a lacy, white thong. He caught Sam’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and dragged his face up so that their eyes met. “I'm up here.”

Sam nodded.

“Good boy.” Castiel leaned over a desk and spanked his own ass, once, but so hard he left an angry red print. “I’m going to want you to ram that monster so far up my ass I can taste you come.”

Sam huffed.

“You want to spank me, Sam? Hm? Come on. Spank me. For what I did today. The way I touched you without permission. You should punish me for that. Make me pay, Sam. Please.” He lifted on his tiptoes so that his pretty, pink asshole was on full display.

Shuddering, Sam ran his tanned hand over Castiel’s smooth, creamy skin, admiring the contrast. "Do you shave?"

Castiel laughed. “You ask a question like that, at a time like this? How old are you, Sammy?"

“Twenty.”

With his neck craned to look over his shoulder, Castiel’s expression melted from hard lust to a tenderness Sam couldn't categorize. “Oh, darling. What have I done to deserve you? Yes, I wax, sweetheart, because a bare cunt is so much nicer than a gnarly forest, wouldn't you agree? Doesn’t Ruby shave for you?”

Sam jolted, shaking his head. “Can we not ... talk about her?”

“Of course, honey. Anything you want. If you want to call me by her name, I couldn’t care less.” Castiel pulled Sam's fingers into his mouth and sucked until they were sopping wet.

Overcome by another wave of heat, Sam leaned over Castiel’s back to catch his breath while Cas lead Sam's wet hand where he wanted it. “Finger my pussy, baby. Come on.”

Sam stood upright, eager to please. His mouth parted as his forefinger sank into Castiel. The low rumble of Cas' moan was an octave Ruby's voice would never reach. Sam stretched his other hand around, reveling in his smooth, firm chest. He pinched a taut nipple between his fingers.

Castiel threw back his head and gifted Sam another perfect growl. Still working the finger in and out of him, he ran his left palm over the ridges of Castiel’s ribs and down the ripple of his abs. Sam held Castiel between the finger in his ass and the palm on his hip - close to climaxing from touching him.

When Sam reached for his cock, Cas pushed his him away. “Don't.”

The scolded hand retreated to clutch Castiel’s waist, and the raven-haired man pushed back onto Sam’s finger. "Give me two."

“Don't we need ... you know, lube?” Just because it was his first time didn't mean Sam hadn’t researched - a lot.

“I like it dry.”

“Doesn't that hurt?”

“Yeah,” Castiel answered.

Sam dribbled spit and worked it in with two fingers. Castiel arched his back and Sam traced down his sensually curved spine.

“Spank me.”

The sharp sting burned Sam's palm.

“Harder.”

Sam struck him again, setting off a flare in his own groin.

“Fucking hit me, Sam.”

He obeyed, and Castiel made the most amazing sound Sam had ever heard: a cross between a shout, a whimper, and a moan. Sam struck him again and again until his hand was on fire. Then he pumped three fingers into his ass, milking Castiel for more of his heavenly sounds.

“God, Sam. Your hands. Harder.”

“Do what harder?” 

“Everything.”

Sam smacked Castiel’s right cheek with his left hand. He pulled his fingers all the way out of his ass and jammed them back in again. Castiel’s body lurched back and forth until Sam's forearm ached.

“Don't move.”

Cas groaned at the loss of his fingers but stayed put while Sam’s shaky hands fumbled with his belt buckle. He stroked himself while his left thumb circled Castiel’s hole. It was open wider than before but still looked pretty tight. “Are you ready?”

“Always, sweetheart.”

Sam drew the condom from his breast pocket, ripped it open with his teeth and started to roll it on.

Castiel caught his wrist. “I’m offended, Sam.”

“I just…”

“You're not going to get anything from me.”

“Yeah, I know, but…” As much as he would have loved to fuck Castiel bare - God, just the thought of it - the least he could do for Ruby was be safe. “Castiel, you sure you don't have lotion or something...”

“There's lube on your rubber. Come on. Give it to me.”

Sam lined himself up. Castiel tucked his left arm behind his back for Sam to hold. Sam spat on his hole again, then he drove in, as slow as he could without going insane.

Castiel’s head tilted back. “Jesus, fuck, that's a big cock.”

He tensed for a moment, then relaxed so that his entire body shifted like a ragdoll as Sam pressed into him. Sam gripped his forearm and pulled him into a standing position. Castiel sighed out a long breath and wrapped his free arm back around Sam's neck. With his left hand splayed on Castiel’s stomach, Sam reached for his cock.

“I said, no.”

Sam held his waist and bit down on his shoulder. He pulled out, drove all the way into him, and came undone, whimpering and shaking, as if it was his first time.

Standing at the door, some hours later, Sam pulled away from Castiel’s kiss. It was cruel that sex with this stranger had been more gratifying than anything he’d ever done with Ruby. It wasn't fair that everything she gave him would never be enough. Castiel wiped Sam's brow. “You think too much.”

“Probably true.”

Castiel smiled, warm and brilliant. “How about you let this be the one place you don't do that. You come here to feel good. Okay? Leave all those deep thoughts outside.”

Sam nodded and let himself be dragged into one last searing kiss before he went home to his wife.

 

***

 

Sam’s dad stood as his only begotten son approached their families’ corner table. He greeted Sam with a broad wide smile and a hearty clap on the shoulder. “There’s my boy.”

“Sorry, I’m late, everyone.”

Ruby shot him a look that conveyed, ‘Where were you? I called. We’ll talk about this later.’ in the span of one second.

Sam took the open seat between his mother and his sister, spreading his arms across the backs of their chairs and planting a kiss on each of their cheeks. Ruby smiled as Mary brushed invisible lint from his necktie.

“Alright,” Sam’s dad announced. “Since we’re doing a twofer here, I’m going to toast Sam and Avrim will toast the beautiful couple.”

Ruby’s father began with an unsurprising declaration: “When Ruby first told me she wanted to get married, I said to Judith, he’s a nice enough boy, but he’s too young. It’ll never work…”

Mr. Salins had been permitted to give a speech at their wedding. It was a minor miracle that they weren’t all still sitting in the hotel listening to him wax poetic, philosophical and very rarely comical. If one thing could be said for Sam’s father-in-law, though, the man was unflinchingly honest. Ten minutes later, he was explaining why he and his wife didn’t yet love Sam like a son, but that they expected that someday it might come to that point. Ruby pulled on his pants leg and whispered, “Daddy.”

Avrim lifted his glass and everyone at the table followed suit. “But as son-in-laws go, we could do worse. And so, to Sam and Ruby, we raise our glasses. Two years behind you and a lifetime ahead. Mazel tov and may your lives together continue to pleasantly surprise us.”

As Avrim sat, Sam’s dad cleared his throat and rose to his feet. “I'm going to keep this brief because you already know how proud you make your mother and I.”

“Me, too,” Jo chirped, and everyone laughed.

Sam squeezed her arm and smiled.

His dad went on, “Sam. Happy birthday, boy. We love you, and we've always known what a wise young man you are. That's why Ruby came as no shock to us. I always told you, you find a good one, snatch her up. You’ve both done that. You got a good man there, Ruby.” He raised his glass.

“I know it, sir.” She glowed at Sam.

“To my son.”

Everyone at the table drank to the toast. People at nearby tables smiled. Jo lifted her glass of apple juice. “Can I make one?”

“Of course.” Mary grinned at Sam, who rested his chin on his fist to listen.

Jo cleared her throat like their dad had done. “To Sam. The best brother ever. Also Ruby, who was very smart to marry him.”

“Here here.” Ruby clinked glasses with Jo across the table.

As they all settled down, the waiter offered Sam a wine menu. While legally, he could have ordered alcohol, he didn’t want to wreck everyone’s evening with a surprise performance. He’d never had a drop in his life; this wasn’t the night to start. He declined the menu and requested water.

Sam asked his mom about their flight. She asked him about training. Everyone placed their orders. Sam leaned over to Jo and whispered behind his hand, “Great toast. Best one.”

His little sister beamed.

Sam basked in the smiling faces and animated conversation around the table until Jo asked, “Can I smell?”

“What?”

She pointed to the fingers Sam had subconsciously been holding below his nose every few minutes so that he could breathe in the subtle, musky scent of Castiel. The smell lingered, even though Sam had showered before rushing to the restaurant. He chuckled and pointed to the book in Jo’s lap. “What are you reading?”

She handed over the dog-eared copy of the Chronicles of Narnia. Sam smiled at its tattered pages and flipped open the cover.

For Sam,  
May your life be full of journeys and adventures.  
Love, Dad

He smoothed his hand over the dedication. “Good book.” 

 

***

 

 

Sam shut his locker and tried a smile for his new teammates.

“Yo, Winchester.” One of the tight ends sat on the bench, lacing up his shoes. “You in, man?”

Across the room, a defensive tackle tossed his gym bag over his shoulder and said, “It’s some Puerto Rican girls that’s just -”

“Dyyyyyyin’ to meetcha,” they sang together.

“Nice.” Sam laughed and shook his head. “I can’t, though. My folks are in town.”

“You religious or something, aren’t you? One of those guys that don't party, right?”

“No. I don’t, usually.” Sam flashed his ring finger. It had served as a powerful shield in college and continued to strike reverence into the hearts of all who saw it.

The tackle visibly flinched. The blocker shook his head. “Man. How’d she get you to do that? Knocked up? You got kids?”

“No. Just an amazing woman.” The best part was, it was entirely true. Sam never had to lie about that.

 

***

 

He propped on an elbow to get a better view of the beauty beside him. Castiel smirked, but didn’t open his eyes. “You should take a picture.”

Sam chuckled, and buried his face in his pillow at having been caught staring.

“You know what? We should.” Castiel sat up. “Let's make some pictures.”

“I don’t know if that’s…”

“Trust me, Sammy. It’s a good idea.” He hopped out of bed.

Sam grinned, never tired of watching Castiel move, especially when every inch of him was bare. Ever the showamn, Cas lifted his left leg - knee to ear, foot straight to the ceiling - and smiled over his shoulder before he cartwheeled from the room.

Less than a minute later, he returned with a professional-looking Nikon. “On your knees. Point that fucking monster at the camera and jack yourself. Slow. There you go. Nice and slow. That’s good … Eat that pre-come... You heard me. Put it in your fucking mouth … Suck it. Good boy. That’s really good.”

Sam followed every instruction like a soldier until he was on the verge of exploding. Castiel stepped forward and gripped him tight at the base of his cock. “Mm-mm. I’m not done with you. Turn around.”

Castiel snapped photos of Sam holding his ass cheeks wide open, fingering himself, fucking himself with a dildo. The more he shot, the more Sam became lost in Castiel’s orders and praise.

Then, Cas handed him the camera, but he required no prompting and no directions. The first thing he did was lay on the bed with his body turned sideways to display the magnificent swell of his thigh and the torque of his obliques. His dick wasn’t visible from where Sam stood, but it didn’t matter. Sam's jaw dropped, and he gaped, the camera dangling in one hand while he stroked himself with the other.

“Sam. Shoot.”

The son of a drill sergeant never needs to be told twice. He shuddered and spilled all over Castiel’s feet. For a moment, Cas mouth fell open. Then he threw his head back and laughed. “God, you’re fucking adorable. I meant the camera.”

“Oh. Oh, shit.”

“You’re amazing.” Cas lifted a foot to his mouth and licked it clean.

Between his filthy moans, the flexibility required to assume that position and every fucking thing about Castiel, Sam’s cock twitched, as if it had more to give. Cas scooted to the end of the bed with his eyes turned up to be sure Sam was watching as he cleansed Sam’s hand with his tongue. The man was a controlled substance: dangerous and intoxicating. Sam would have given anything to taste him. He stroked Cas’ coarse hair. “Can I…”

Castiel tucked his erection between his thighs and snapped his knees shut.

Already accustomed to that reaction, Sam returned his focus to Castiel’s tongue playing between with his fingers. He raised the camera and snapped a shot of that, as well as a few of Castiel sucking his thumb.

“Stop.” Sam took a dozen pictures of Castiel’s face. He looked up from the viewfinder, heat washing over him like a baptism by fire. “God, you’re beautiful.”

Somehow Cas managed to combine ‘I know.’ and ‘You lie.’ into one expression. He took the camera from Sam’s hands. “Come here.” 

He pressed their foreheads together, trapping Sam’s skull in his free hand while snapping off a series of their tongues tangling in the space between their mouths. Castiel licked Sam's soft palate and massaged the inside of his cheek, sensations he'd never felt before. Sam closed his eyes and gave himself over, an instrument in the hands of a virtuoso. He was tuned and ready to perform any song, any task that was requested of him. He would work magic, levitate, conquer galaxies for more of what Castiel gave.

Cas set down the camera, stood, and pushed Sam down onto the bed. He climbed onto his lap so that they were facing. Just as Castiel started to wrap his arms around his neck, Sam shouted, “Fuck!”

“Mmm. Let’s.” Castiel rolled his hips, grinding his ass over Sam’s nearly recovered cock.

Sam’s eyes rolled back in his head. He gripped Castiel’s hips to make him stop. “I totally forgot. I have to take my parents to the airport.”

“Well, that’s no fun.” Cas groaned and crawled past Sam up the bed. “You just love ‘em and leave ‘em, don’t you?”

Sam huffed. He and Castiel hadn’t used that word. He hadn’t even thought it. He'd done precisely what Castiel had said: come to this apartment time and again and left all of the stress of the outside world on Cas’ FUCK OFF! mat.

Anyway, it was a turn of phrase. ‘Love ‘em and leave ‘em’ was just a thing that people say. Castiel hadn’t confessed his undying devotion. Everything was still cool.

“I got to go.” 

After a quick shower, he stood at the foot of Castiel’s bed, buttoning his shirt. “I’m sorry.”

When Castiel shook his head, it looked like a pardon. Then he asked, “Why don’t you introduce me?”

“Good one.”

Castiel crawled down the bed to kneel in front of him. He flicked open the button Sam had just fastened. “You love me?”

Sam’s stomach sank. He'd seen this coming. He needed to get to his folks in fifteen minutes; it was no time for philosophy. No time for asking himself what Love even is. All he knew was that Love wasn’t fucking someone’s brains out, even if you did it every other day.

Then again, was Love the thing he had with Ruby, where he gave her part of himself and withheld so much? Could you claim to love someone if all you ever did was lie to them? For that matter, did Sam even love his parents? Did he love anyone, really, the way he would want to be loved - with honesty and acceptance and trust?

For the first time, it crashed in on Sam that for all the picture book smiling he did, he was completely alone. Castiel was the only person who knew every piece of him.

With that in mind, Sam gave the only answer that didn’t make him feel like an asshole. “Of course.”

“Show me.”

“Wh … How?”

“Introduce me to your parents.” Castiel’s hand smoothed down his shirt. “Just as someone you know. We can do it with Ruby there. Just say I’m the best dance teacher you ever had.” He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, tempest-blue eyes so sincere.

“Cas…”

“Liar.” Castiel stepped from the bed and stormed out of the room.

After Sam had finished dressing, he sought out Castiel to apologize again and say a proper goodbye, patch things up with a kiss. When Sam called out for him, he didn’t answer, and Sam was already running late.

 

 

*** 

 

Sam kissed his mom and his little sister. His dad pulled him into a rough, one-arm embrace that ended with two manly thuds on his back. The old man nodded his head, eyes glassy. “Hold down the fort, son.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ll be back for the first game,” he vowed. “Alright, ladies, let’s move.”

 

***

 

Sam glanced in the driver’s mirror with the phone nestled between his ear and shoulder. He pressed his lips together and steadied his breath. “I can’t right now, sweetie. Emergency meeting in a few minutes.”

Ruby was an infinitely patient woman, but this was the third session of couple’s therapy he’d blown off in a row, and her frustration was evident in the way she said his name. She had a right to be peeved. Things were not exactly cooking in the bedroom, unlike in the car. Sam rested his hand on Castiel’s neck and tossed back his head for a second. The phone slipped, and he scrambled to catch it. “I’m sorry. I’ll be at the next one, I swear.”

“Are you working out?”

“Yeah.” Sam allowed himself the grunt he’d been holding behind his teeth since it corroborated with the story Ruby had invented. “Fucking leg curls.”

“Sam!” She'd asked him not to swear quite so much.

Sam would never understand her reasons, just like Ruby would never understand his testosterone-laden work environment, where every third word was an expletive. “Our home is not a locker room,” she'd said, and Sam had conceded the point, because - why fight? Both his dad’s and father in law’s (only partly) facetious advice for a happy home had been: ‘Happy wife, happy life.’

“Sorry. Leg curls,” he corrected himself.

“Fine. I’ll reschedule,” she said, deflated. “I really thought the first session helped, Sam. Didn’t you?”

“Yeah. Babe, look. I got to go. We’ll talk about it tonight.”

“‘Kay. I love you?” She had developed a nerve-wracking habit of making a declaration into a question when she was disappointed.

“Me, too.” He hung up the phone and tossed it on the floor. “Jesus.” Sam slid his right middle finger down the crack of Castiel’s ass, delicious and visible in his low riding, skin-tight pants.

Castiel favored black leather, and it favored him right back. He sat up and grinned. “Leg curls. You’re hilarious.”

In Sam’s defense, there had been a last minute team meeting called that afternoon. That had been finished for an hour when he got Ruby's call.

Sam was on his way to a convenience store to buy lube, because no matter how much Castiel said he could take Sam without, it freaked him out. Besides, he held on to hope that he could talk Castiel into flipping for once. It was a mistake to let Cas tag along. Now that stupidity/generosity was being punished/rewarded by having his entire cock swallowed while Sam tried to focus on traffic.

“Oh, fuck.” His legs trembled as he came apart, long and hard down Castiel's throat.

He leaned forward, crushing Cas' head against the steering wheel. Sam’s vision cleared just in time for him to right the car and avoid colliding with an oncoming wagonload of old ladies.

“Fuck, Cas. Fuck.”

Castiel sat up and licked the corner of his mouth. “You shouldn’t talk to a lady that way.”

Sam chuckled, still struggling to catch his breath.

Castiel’s face remained utterly serious, lips pursed in a librarian’s glare. “Would you say that to Ruby?”

Sam’s mouth fell open. In their household, Ruby was the adventurous one. She was constantly trying to get him to experiment, when all Sam ever wanted to do was fulfill his husbandly duties, in missionary position, as quickly as possible and be done with it.

But Cas had Sam figured out. He would never say that to his wife. Would never growl, “Fuck, Ruby.” to her, in case she thought it was crass and pornographic. In all fairness, though, she had also never deep-throated him in a residential neighborhood in the middle of the day.

Sam kept waiting for Castiel to say he was kidding. When it didn’t happen, he started to mumble an apology that was interrupted by a police siren.

He took the moment before the officer approached to put his cock away and zip his pants. While the man waited for Sam’s ID, he muttered the gruff standard: “You know why I pulled you over?”

“No, sir,” Sam answered with all the respect he’d been taught to show those who protect and serve.

“You were weaving pretty serious there. You been drinking?”

“No, sir.” Sam handed over his license and registration

As if by magic, the situation has switched on Castiel's mute button. He sat back and blended with the upholstery.

“Winchester. I thought you looked familiar. Aren’t you the Steelers’ new boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hot damn!” The officer slapped his knee. “Welcome to town, boy. We got high hopes for you. God knows we need the new blood.”

Sam chuckled, a thin tendril of relief allowing him to relax. “Thank you, sir.”

“You haven’t been drinking, have you, son?” It looked as though it pained the officer to even ask the question.

“No, sir. I don’t drink.”

“Well…” The cop looked at his ID, contemplating his next move. “You need to start driving like you throw.”

“Yes, sir. I will work on that.”

“Why don’t you sign this for my kid and we’ll get you on your way.”

Sam gave his autograph and tucked his license back into his wallet. The officer held up his pointer finger. “All the way, right?”

“Absolutely, sir. Super Bowl or bust.”

Just as Sam was beginning to see the light at the end of this tunnel, the policeman leaned down and cast a confused scowl at Castiel. Cas sat stone still with his hands on his knees, staring forward out of the windshield like a pod person.

“Hey. Buddy. You got ID?”

Castiel rolled his eyes without turning to face the officer. “Is there a reason you want it?”

Sam’s heart pounded against his chest like a fist.

“Do you want to detain us or are we free to go?”

The officer narrowed his eyes and looked back at Sam. After another moment of deliberation, he nodded and said, “Warning this time.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The cop gave Castiel another glance and strolled back to his car.

Sam drove off, pulse on overdrive, doing 20 MPH in a 60 MPH hour zone. Once they had gone a few miles, Castiel melted like ice on a griddle. He slapped Sam’s thigh. “Hot damn, boy.”

Sam’s pulse hadn't normalized, and Cas’ sudden liveliness unsettled his nerves further. He gripped the wheel tight and took a deep breath. The fresh air chilled his entire body.

Castiel ran his hand over his hair. “I swear, I never set out to be a star fucker, but if I told you some of the supposedly straight men who have come up my ass, it would make your head spin.”

Sam’s head was already spinning. The car may as well have been whirling like a top in the middle of the road.

Over the previous months, he had tried to cancel and refuse invitations, but could never bring himself to miss a single opportunity to be hiding away in Castiel’s lair like there was no outside world. It was the only place where he could ignore calls from his wife and his agent, and just be. But this was a wholly different matter: driving in broad daylight with his cock down Castiel’s throat was just plain stupid.

Sam had become a junkie on the verge of being caught with a needle hanging from his veins. The traffic stop was his signal flare to kick this habit, once and for all.

“Castiel. This is … not working.”

“I’d figured you’d say that. We can keep it at my place.”

“No, I…" Sam stuttered. “I’ve already been thinking that I need to do this differently. Everything. I need to … For one thing, I can’t keep cheating on my wife … ”

“With a man.” 

“With…” Sam’s vision blurred for a second, ice rushing through his veins.

The full potential danger of the police officer’s scrutiny caught up and slammed into him like a tidal wave. “That guy just totally … people are already fucking recognizing me here. What the hell am I doing?”

“It’s okay. It’s okay, Sam.” 

Sam gawked at the hand caressing his arm. He shook his head for a full ten seconds before he could speak again. “I can’t… We need to stop this. Right now. I’ll take you home. That’s it.”

Castiel’s head tilted, his eyes piercing Sam’s as he whispered, “You want to just throw me away?”

“That's not … Not what I said.” 

“I'm in love with you, Sam. That means nothing to you?”

“How?” Sam’s voice was high, nearing hysteria, as he tried to focus on the road as well as the impossible conversation. “I mean, all we've done for the last three months -”

“Don't you dare,” Castiel hissed like a viper. “Don't you belittle our connection. I let you into my body. You're part of me.”

“Castiel, this is ... this has been…”

“Don't you say it.”

“Okay. More than fun. It’s been…” Sam floundered for an adequate word. “I can't throw my life away over --”

“Some fag.”

“That's not…”

Castiel grabbed the steering wheel and veered the car into the shoulder. Sam slammed on the brakes. The tires screeched over asphalt and rumbled on the gravel. The front bumper scraped against the guardrail before Sam managed to straighten the car.

“Jesus Christ!”

Cas drew in a loud breath through his nostrils and folded his arms over his chest. “Who do you think would be more interested in our photo shoot, your coach or the press?”

Sam stared, incapable of speech or movement.

“You leave me, I will fucking finish you,” Castiel spoke the words like sweet nothings to a lover.

With that whispered vow, he made Sam's choice so simple. There was nothing to change. Nothing to fear. As long as he didn’t piss Castiel off, everything would be fine.

 

*** 

 

The apartment was dark when Sam entered. “Babe?”

He was home three hours later than he’d predicted and ready to face yelling or the cold shoulder, whichever was Ruby's flavor. His jaw dropped at the candles flickering in the dimmed dining room. Three red roses stood in a slender vase between their best flatware and a lovely salad. Ruby ushered Sam to his chair and kissed his cheek.

“What’s up?” Sam kept the suspicion from his voice as he filed through the Rolodex of occasions in his mental calendar and came up blank.

Ruby poured water from the carafe into his glass. “You don't want to do the therapy, we don't have to.”

“It's not that ... I don't think we need it. I think we're fine. You're beautiful. I love you.” When she sat down the bottle, he took her tiny hands between his. “Therapy is not going to make me love you any more than I do. Nothing can do that. I love you ... so much. You are ... you don't even know.”

“What if…” Her careful whisper startled him. Ruby was such a confident, strong woman, but in that moment, she quaked. “What if I had your baby?”

Sam released her hands. “We said we were gonna wait, Ru.”

“Yeah.” She slipped to the floor before his chair.

Sam pinned his knees together and hoped to God she wouldn’t try to initiate anything. There was no way he'd be able to perform. Even if Castiel hadn’t already drained him dry, the situation was the polar opposite of hot.

“... Until we got settled,” he continued.

“I know.”

“...And see.” Sam used the exact words they had spoken when they’d talked about this.

“I know, Sam, but…” She wiped an errant lock from his eyes.

“Are you?”

She nodded, trying for a smile and failing. Sam wiped a hand over his mouth and sat back in his chair.

“We don't have to now,” Ruby said. “We can wait, like we said. I just... figured since it happened, maybe this was the right time.”

“It's not,” Sam replied, harsher than he’d intended.

There wasn’t a kind way to do this. Ruby forced herself to nod in agreement. She’d been walking on eggshells for months, trying everything in her arsenal to draw him in. Sam didn’t have the words or the heart to tell her what a waste her efforts would always be.

Now, this. Ruby wanted children. She was four years his senior, and still nowhere near her biological cutoff. And she was still in school. The timing wasn’t ideal for her either. The bigger issue for Ruby would always be the abortion she’d already had before they met. It was something she'd confessed to Sam on their third date, in a fit of tears and tissues. She'd confided that she would regret that decision for the rest of her life.

But that's why she was on the pill. They hardly had sex at all - once every few weeks. There was no point asking how this had happened. Sam had reproductive biology in middle school. He could only suppose that behind the science, there was a curse. Ruby was being punished for his sins, which was cruel, even for the mercurial God he learned about in Sunday school.

After everything Ruby had done for Sam, he was going to take this from her, because he was a monster, but he didn't have a choice.

Maybe later he'd do it. Have a family, for Ruby. As great as Sam’s smile looked in print, he was too much of a fuck up to want to pass his genes on to someone else. As highly as everyone seemed to think of him, he'd been a liar for as long as he could remember. Now, add to that a cruel and selfish cheat. When Sam Winchester looked in the mirror, he saw an all around bastard. How was someone like that supposed to raise a kid?

“Not now, Ru. Just...”

Ruby nodded and started to clear the table. Sam stepped behind her, took the plate from her hands, and buried his nose in her hair. She still used the same green apple and honeysuckle shampoo as when they had met.

He wrapped his arms around her, kissed her ear and promised, "When the time is right, we'll have a whole team of them."

She clutched him tight and let out an ugly sob/snort that made them both laugh.

 

***

 

The next throw was even more off target. Sam couldn’t help but snicker at the stunned look on the receiver’s face as the guy watched the ball sail past him, yards out of reach. He could have dived for it, but apparently, the poorness of the toss was too much of a shock.

The coach tooted his whistle and waved them both over. Sam slogged, the air and his brain matter of a thicker consistency than usual.

“What's going on? You’re not even under any pressure, kid.” The coach scratched his gray hair. “Why are you throwing off your back foot?”

Sam shrugged, willing himself to keep his mouth shut. There was no telling what he might say with his head full of oatmeal creme pies.

“Is something going on at home?”

Sam shook his head.

“Well, what the hell was that?”

Sam looked back over his shoulder and broke into a fit of giggles. “I don’t know.”

The awe on his coach’s face made the whole thing even more hilarious. Sam doubled over, gripping his stomach, unable to stop himself. He covered his mouth with both hands to keep in the hysterics. He shook his head and apologized, but he couldn’t stop laughing.

Some of the guys were watching. A lot of the guys. All of the guys. Who knew? People’s faces were blurring. The yard lines were already blurred.

The coach leaned close. “Sam, are you drunk?”

“No.” The word was shattered by fresh chuckles.

Sam had never been drunk in his life. While he’d always been sensitive to certain foods, his body reacted to sugar the way most people react to tequila. Booze might kill him on the spot.

He opened his mouth wide for the coach to get a whiff; all the man would smell was cookie and gooey white stuff.

“What the hell, Sam?” The coach shook his head. “Just what the hell?”

Sam fought his snicker and followed the assistant coach to have his blood tested.

 

***

 

“You know what I'm going to do to you when we get to my place?”

Sam stared, transfixed by Castiel’s eyes, a darker, almost mystical shade of blue under the setting sun.

Cas bit the corner of his lip and let their knuckles brush together, the faint touch was hotter than if Castiel had outright groped him. Sam had never been hypnotized, but it must feel something like this. 

“Want me to tell you or do you want it to be a surprise?” The growl of Castiel’s voice, sent a fresh heat through Sam's body - electric shock. 

He licked his lips and adjusted his stance to make space for his growing cock.

He was smiling, thinking about what Castiel was going to do to him when someone shouted, “Go die, faggots.”

The words hadn’t even registered in Sam’s mind before Cas lurched forward against his chest. Glass crashed on the pavement. Castiel would have fallen to his knees if Sam hadn't caught him. He touched the back of his head, fingers coming away covered in blood.

“What the hell?” Breathing fast, Sam struggled to get his bearings, looking in the direction of their attackers, now long gone.

A beer bottle lay shattered on the sidewalk at their feet. He peered into Castiel’s eyes. “Are you alright?”

“I'm fine. Fuckers.”

“We should call the police.”

Cas scoffed. “Probably a cop's kid, Sam.”

Sam took two steps up the street, as if he was going to take off after the assholes. “Seriously. They can't just get away with this. I think I could identify at least one of them.”

“Sam.” Castiel rolled his eyes. “Maybe you can call the cops, because you … blend. But when you’re a girl like me, if you’re laying in a ditch, half dead, you don't call the cops. Cops don't give a shit about us. We might as well be black boys.”

“Cas, that’s not…”

“I've been a fag longer than you've been alive. Trust me on this one.”

Strictly speaking, it was an exaggeration, but Cas was 30 and had been out since he was twelve. “Well, you need to go the hospital."

“They're just as bad," Castiel said. "I'm going to go home, put some ice on my boo-boo, take an Advil and let you rub my feet.”

Sam paced the corner with his hands on his hips.

Castiel calmed him with a hand on his chest. “Look at it this way. Now, you’ve been initiated. You aren’t really a faggot until you’ve been called one.”

 

***

 

Ruby stood before where Sam sat on the sofa with her dark hair hung over her pale shoulders. She nudged his knees open with her own and slipped to the floor between them.

He tucked a finger under the silk strap of her burgundy teddy. “That’s really pretty, honey. Is it new?”

She nodded and turned her huge brown eyes up to him like she was searching out constellations. Sam kissed her forehead, gave her shoulders a small squeeze and said, “They’re killing us out there, sweetie. I just can’t tonight.”

 

***

 

He kept his face buried in the crook of his arm, while Castiel sat on his thighs, prodding him with a small clear dildo.

“So does this mean, no more catch?” Cas asked. “Don’t get me wrong; I like seeing more of you. I’m just wondering…”

Sam answered into the mattress. 

“What?”

Sam pushed up enough to repeat, “Probation.”

“Which means?”

Sam shrugged and lowered his face again.

“Do you miss it?”

“I don't remember a time when didn't play football.”

“Hm.” Castiel held Sam's cheek aside and rammed his rubber dick into him like it was punishment. “Did you tell the sardine?”

Sam refused to acknowledge Castiel’s nickname for Ruby. He arched his back to change the angle and said, “God, yeah. Right there.”

 

***

 

6:18 PM was his usual time to be home from practice, and Sam was punctual for a change. Ruby was at her desk, working on her dissertation. He stepped into her office and kissed the crown of her head. She covered his hand on her shoulder with her own.

“Turning in.”

Ten minutes later, she crawled into bed behind him. Sam lay stock-still as her arm slipped around his hip, hand fumbling with his crotch. He closed his eyes and let her play with him until it made him want to cry. Then, he took her wrist in his hand and murmured, "Tired, babe."

She pressed her lips to his shoulder, her body shuddering against him. There might have been a sob, but Sam didn’t turn around to confirm. Her sorrow wasn’t something he could face or fix.

 

***

 

Castiel stood at the foot of the bed with his hands on his hips. He flicked a Skittles wrapper away from Sam’s ankles and moved around to the bedside. “Here.”

Sam groaned, allowing Castiel to help him sit up, despite his swimming head.

“You yack on my bed, I will murder you, Sam.”

Sam swooned, too groggy to resist the cool glass at his lips. He swallowed Castiel’s water and his bitter pills. Eventually, the swirling room paused long enough to fade to black.

 

***

 

Sam awoke with a vicious headache and a furious pain in his right arm. If he wasn't dying, what could he do to change that?

“Fuck!” He gawked at the white bandage around his wrist, breathing fast and fighting a losing battle against his tears.

Was he injured? Sam hadn’t been to training in over a week and wasn’t sure how long he had been unconscious. He squeezed his eyes shut, balled his left hand into a fist and rolled his head to the side. His whimper somehow worsening the agony. When he opened his eyes again, he found a glass of water and two tablets on the bedside table along with a note that read: ‘Eat me, Drink me.’

“Cas?” he tried to call out, but his voice was shot, throat aching and parched.

Curiosity finally overtook him, and he tried to peel the gauze from around his arm, but found himself unable to bear the pain. Panting, he dropped his head back to the pillow.

 

***

 

Ruby stood with both hands clasped over her mouth as the doctor examined the wound. That was her default position in the last two hours since they'd arrived at the hospital.

Castiel was no surgeon. He'd hacked right through skin, muscle and tendon, straight down to the bone.

“And you don’t know what he used?” The surgeon repeated the question for the fiftieth time.

What different did it make what he had used? A coat hanger, a butter knife? The damage was done. It was this chick’s job to fix it.

“I’m not sure.” Sam maintained a semblance of composure. “I told you, I was unconscious.”

The only detail Sam was sure about, he was unwilling to confess. Why Castiel had sliced the fuck out of his wrist, Sam wasn’t even sure himself. He had done everything Castiel had wanted. He was at Cas’ apartment more than he was in his own home.

When the surgeon excused herself, Ruby took Sam’s good hand in both of her own. She settled in the chair beside his bed. “Your mother is on her way.”

“Why?” Sam sighed, lowering his head to avoid Ruby’s permanent expression of grief and pity.

“How could I not call her, Sam?”

“The world doesn’t end because someone gets mugged.”

She didn’t respond to that. Sam had filed a police report stating that he had been jumped, knocked out and cut. The cops took it all down without much comment. There was also a visit from the frizzy-haired hospital social worker who had offered to return at any time, if Sam wanted to talk. He'd resisted the urge to tell her to go fuck herself. He couldn’t blame everyone for their false assumptions.

As far as Sam was concerned, the story added up, all the way down to his missing wallet, which was still at Castiel’s. It was as good as gone, because Sam was sure as hell never going back there.

Ruby’s thumb grated back and forth across his left hand. “Baby, this is not … we’re fine. You’re fine. We’re going to get through this. Whatever you need.”

“Ruby, I didn’t do this to myself.” That was as much truth as Sam could afford and he clung to it like it was his last dollar.

He repeated it to his mother the following afternoon while she wept into her cup of tea. “You were always so sensitive, Sam. You don’t know how I worried for you in middle school. You used to sit there, so quiet and tell me you were thinking. ‘Just thinking, mom.’” She covered her mouth with a quivering hand. “Oh, baby. Too much pressure. I told your father…”

“Mom. I didn’t do this to myself,” Sam said, although that statement was not entirely true.

His choices had created this situation. It was indirect, but he had, in fact, made the bed where he was lying.

Although Castiel hadn’t been trying to kill him, Sam strongly considered finishing the job himself. This was far from the first time he’d thought of taking a permanent way out. Just the closest he’d ever come to doing it. He wasn’t a wrist-slitting type, though. The methods he favored were less fallible.

In fact, when Sam met Ruby, he'd been contemplating one of those methods. She'd become a new North Star for him back then and she had saved his life after the cutting incident, both times in ways she’d never know. With her east coast liberal values, she insisted there be no guns in their home. In the bleak, midnight moments when he most longed for a way out, Sam lacked the mental capacity to track down a weapon.

Sam’s agent sent a card. His head coach and a few teammates even came by the house. The man had checked his usual gruff manner at the door and made a gracious speech about how once a player is a member of the Steelers family, he’s a member for life. Sam’s mother cried again.

It wasn’t lost on Sam that Coach Marlowe and the delegation from the squad were all dressed in black suits, with their arms clasped in front of them, heads bowed as if it were a funeral. He was fairly confident that it was the last time he’d see any of them.

Ruby frowned, confused when the coach apologized for the third time that he hadn’t made it clear that the probation was temporary. She didn’t question Sam about it. She shook all of their hands, thanked them for coming and saw them to the door.

While his mother washed the dishes from tea, Ruby settled beside him on the sofa.

“Don’t you …” Sam murmured. “You should probably get some work done, right?”

She rolled her lips into her mouth and took a deep breath like it required intense mental preparation to speak to him. “You need some time…”

Sam nodded.

“Of course.” Ruby stood, still holding his hand. “Call me. For anything.”

“Yeah. I will.” He tried to free his fingers.

She held them. “I love you.”

“I know. Me, too.”

And still, she didn’t leave. She nudged his leg with her knee, making it rock against the other. “I love you. No matter what.”

Sam nodded.

Ruby finally let him go, but it was only so that she could rest both of her hands on his shoulders. “This is not a defeat. It’s a turning point.”

Sam clenched his jaw to keep back the scream welling up in the back of his throat _, ‘Run! Go! Get away from me! You have no idea what a fucked up mess I am!’_

Sam had learned how to work his dimples before he was two years old. He flashed them for Ruby’s benefit, nodded again, and sighed when she left him the hell alone.

He fell asleep on the sofa, dreamed he had stolen something in an Arabian market. Something small and insignificant that had belonged to him in the first place. Still, two linebackers from his team held him down while his dad hacked off his hand with a machete.

Sam gasped awake. His mother was already at his side before he could sit up all the way. She wiped a palm over his forehead. “No fever. You want to try just half of this?”

The pain medicine he'd taken in the hospital made him hallucinate so badly, he’d needed to be fully sedated. Sam winced at his ravaged hand. Movement hurt. Stillness hurt. Besides not wanting to startle Ruby or his mother with any more out of control behavior, this pain was Justice. He deserved to suffer much worse. He shook his head and gripped the leg of his sweat pants with his left hand. “No, I’m fine.”

When the doorbell rang, his mother called back to Ruby that she’d answer. Sam was so busy staring at his bandage, wallowing in the keen, pulsing ache that he didn’t register any of it until his mother was leading another guest into the living room.

“Honey, your friend is here to see you.”

Sam’s breath caught in his throat. His heart halted for a long moment before thrashing against his chest. Castiel entered, carrying a rectangular Tupperware. He whispered as if someone was sleeping, “Your mother is lovely.”

“Shall I take that.” Sam’s mother reached for the dish.

“No,” Castiel held it away from her. “No. It’s for Ruby.”

“Oh. That’s nice. Should I go get her?”

Sam nodded. The moment his mother was gone from the room, Castiel leaned forward and hissed, “You blocked my calls?”

“You cut me.”

“You’re welcome.”

Sam could only gape at the madman in front of him.

“You were too much of a coward to leave that game, just like you’re too much of a coward to leave your wife.”

Sam scoffed, speechless. The waves of heat that rolled over him had nothing to do with arousal or attraction. 

“You’ve been pretending so long about everything else that your family doesn’t even know you don’t want to play football. How can Ruby possibly love you, Sam? She doesn’t even--”

“Castiel?”

Cas stood upright and opened an arm as if to comfort her. “Hello, darling. I heard what happened.”

“How? I mean… Tell me it’s not in the media. Sam’s agent promised us…”

“No, no, darling. I have my sources. You know I always know everything.” He handed her the platter.

“Do you know people at the hospital?” Ruby guessed.

Castiel chuckled. “Sure, honey. I didn’t come to stay. Just to see how the brute was doing and tell him we’ve missed him in class.”

“I’ve told him that. And this…” She looked at the dish in her hands. “This is really too thoughtful of you.”

Castiel waved off her gratitude. “It’s an old family recipe. Sardine souffle. Hope you enjoy it, Sam.”

“Well, that was sweet of him to drop by.” Ruby sat the Tupperware on the coffee table while Sam’s mother saw Castiel to the door. “Should we, maybe, have some for lunch?”

Sam eyed the dish, sure that something terrible would happen if Ruby opened the lid: an explosion, snakes, something. As it turned out, it just stank to high heaven. As far as Sam could tell, the recipe for sardine souffle was open the can and dump the fish into the tray. Serve with irony.

“I don’t think he’s much of a cook.” Ruby turned up her nose. “You feeling brave?”

Sam turned away. “Not hungry.”

Miraculously, she returned to her office without arguing. Sam’s mother hovered while trying to appear not to hover. He attempted a single round of the PT exercises, still finding it impossible to touch the tip of his thumb to his pinky without a searing pain that made him shout out loud.

Eventually, Mary came to redress the wound. Sam frowned at the soggy skin around the taut blue stitches. He bit his lip as she swabbed away a tiny gob of pus. “We’ll have to go back in tomorrow if this keeps up.”

Her touch, the iodine, air: everything burned like a brand. Sam bit back a whimper and tried for a joke. “Won’t be going to the Super Bowl with this monstrosity?”

“Sam.” His mother stopped what she was doing. “Look at me.”

He obliged, knowing he had begged for sympathy he didn’t deserve.

“That is not important.”

“Dad knows…” Sam couldn’t even begin to imagine his dad’s reaction. Just the thought of facing the man made him want to end himself again.

“Your father and Jo have school.” Sam’s mother continued her torturous, tender care. “They’ll be here this weekend.”

 

***

 

After breakfast the following morning, Mary ironed a button-down shirt and was helping Sam shrug into it. Ruby had been back at her desk, trying to get in an hour of writing before they made the trek to the doctor to be sure Sam’s wound wasn’t becoming infected.

“Mary.” Ruby stepped into the room, studying her cell phone. “Could I … Can Sam and I have a moment, please?”

“Of course.” Sam’s mom slipped the shirt onto his shoulders and whisked away.

Ruby took a deep breath and sat on the corner of the bed, worrying her bottom lip.

“What is it?” 

Even before she moved, before she spoke another word, Sam sensed that this era of his life was over. It was clear on her face, it crackled in the air, making the hair on his neck and arms stand on end.

She handed him the cell phone and all he could do was blink down at the professional quality photograph. That really was some camera Castiel had.

Ruby’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. She shook her head, staring at her tiny hands folded on her knees. Sam couldn’t take his eyes away from the slow, comforting caress of her left thumb over the other.

“Is this…” Ruby stared at the wall. “A phase?”

Here she was again, offering Sam an out. He could say that he was curious. That it was experimentation.

Sam's first crush from second grade, Daniel Ackerman, had Superman glasses and hair almost as dark as Castiel’s. “A fourteen-year phase.”

Her nostrils flared, face on the verge of crumbling, but she nodded, resolute, impossibly steady behind the downpour. Nowhere in the stress lines and grief in Ruby's face was there any indication of surprise.

“Is this why … everything?”

Everything could have meant anything, but it was why enough things that he nodded to keep from having to speak again.

She sat silent for so long that Sam was afraid to move or breathe. He was a criminal awaiting sentencing.

Ruby peered up at him with bloodshot eyes and asked, “Do you love me?”

“Yes.”

She nodded. “It’s our marriage. We can define it how we want.”

When it dawned on Sam what Ruby was saying, what she was offering, he realized just how wrong Castiel had been about one vital thing. Ruby loved him the way anyone on earth would die to be loved.

Sam was the one who had been sucking the life out of her for the last three years, like some  emotional vampire. He was the one who might not be capable of real love. 

Now that his NFL contract carried about the same value as the Charmin under the sink, Sam was free to find out about real love and anything else he wanted to know. For the first time in his life, he was free to be himself. If he could only figure out who he was.

 

***

 

His father didn’t come that weekend or the following one, or the next. For more than a month, Sam wasted away in his tiny studio apartment, unshaven, unbathed, with the curtains drawn over his mess of delivery food trash.

Most days, he spent hours at a time, cradling his shotgun on his lap, stroking over the barrel, the trigger, the stock. From time to time, he'd open his mouth and place the muzzle against his soft pallet, clamping his teeth down and closing his lips around the steel. He preferred the front sight under the chin but had read statistics that it more likely to fail that way. 

Castiel never explained how he found him. It didn’t really matter. He was there, at Sam’s door, holding Sam’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. "You look like Abraham Lincoln with this thing. You know that, don't you?"

Sam couldn't speak, let alone laugh.

“I got you, Sammy." Castiel scratched Sam's beard and blessed him with a sweet smile. "Don’t I always take care of you?”

 


	23. Chapter 23

Jody pulls off the moment Dean's foot leaves the pavement.  
  
“You alright?”  
  
When he nods, she does the same. Then she punches him in the arm, hard enough to bruise.   
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
“You fucking should be."  
  
He scrapes the dirt from his bare soles onto the dashboard.  
  
"Where are your shoes, you little idiot?”   
  
Dean leans back into the hand on his head, but the caress is over almost before it started. “Tonight or tomorrow?” he asks.  
  
“What?”  
  
He turns to face his mother. “Do you want to split tonight or get some rest first? I can drive if you want to go now. We could just roll from here with the clothes on our backs, like we did out of Barstow.”   
  
“Heat that hot? What the hell did you do?   
  
“Nothing. It's just time to roll. Cops and ... other bullshit.”   
  
“Anything to do with that giant?”  
  
Dean rubs his busted ankle. “He's fucking married. He's getting married.”   
  
“And you care because …”   
  
“Shut up.”   
  
“Look. Let's agree. No more adults, okay?” Jody looks at him, waiting for some sign of compliance that Dean is never going to show. “This guy gives me the creeps, Dean. I got a bad feeling the first time I saw him.”   
  
Dean’s laugh is the bitter, acid-flavored kind. “Yeah? A bad feeling? You ever have a bad feeling about Marc? Or Garrett? ‘Cause those guys? They gave me fucking bad feelings. Like, a lot.” His voice cracks and he shuts the fuck up.   
  
This has to be Sam’s fault. Before Sam started trying to get Dean to talk about this shit, he never thought about it at all.   
  
“I'm not talking about my poor choices,” Jody says. "I'm talking about you messing around with kids your own age, okay? No more with Sam.”   
  
“If we leave, that’s guaranteed.”   
  
“What is wrong with you? You love him or something? Because I warned you...” Her voice has that same high-pitched disappointment as the time in Twentynine Palms when Dean broke into the cash register at her job.   
  
“No.”   
  
“Good. Because we don’t do that.” She checks her mirror before switching lanes. “He looks like a fucking good lay. That body. God.”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
“I understand that, but so are a lot of people. Even some your age. And if they aren't, you teach them. No more adults until you are one. Please.”   
  
“Fine. Let's just get out of here, now. ... Please.”  
  
“Did something happen?” Jody scours him with her eyes, as best she can in the car in the dark. “Did he hurt you?”  
  
“I told you. He’s not like that.”  
  
“Well, we're not leaving. Not yet.”   
  
Dean reaches for the radio and she slaps his hand. He sucks his teeth and watches other people's brake lights.   
  
“Your coach invited us to dinner.”  
  
“What?!” He gapes at her. “Is that why he's been acting so weird? You went and talked to my coach?” This would be the right time to tuck and roll and hitchhike out of town.   
  
“I wouldn’t have had to do that if you had answered my fucking calls all weekend. I talked to every fucking person at your school because you were fucking missing.” Her expression dissolves into something softer. “It was cruel, Dean. To let me think -”   
  
“I'm sorry. I…”   
  
She wipes her face with a palm and punches his thigh. “You're a selfish little shit.”  
  
“What do you want me to do? I'm sorry. Okay? I was pissed.”   
  
“Pissed that I wouldn't let you fuck a giant, who you went behind my back and fucked anyway, and now you want to run away from, because he's not what you thought, exactly like I said in the first place?”  
  
Jody had bottled up his bullshit and made him chug it. “You win, okay? Congratulations. Can we just get out of here?”   
  
“Dean, shut up! No! We’re not leaving," she said. "We're going to have dinner with these people. Your coach seems to think you have some serious potential. He's ... really proud of you.”  
  
If Dean didn’t know his mother better, he would think she was choked up. But Jody doesn’t do choked up or supportive. She has two gears: obnoxious and annoyed. “You do know that we're talking about football. Since when do you give a flying shit if I have potential or not?”  
  
She stares at him longer than seems safe, considering that the car is still in motion and she’s supposed to be driving it. “I want good things for you. Do you not know that?”  
  
“Whatever.” He has no more meaningful answer to her weird show of emotion. “We always blow town after bullshit with the cops.”  
  
“This is different.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“How about you stop arguing with me for a change, for fuck’s sake? I've done everything I could for you. Everything. Can you just fucking do what I say and stop second guessing me for once?”  
  
They're walking up the sidewalk when Dean's phone buzzes in his pocket and Jody asks, “That him?”  
  
“No,” he lies and follows her to the front door of the apartment.   
  
“Tell him to leave you alone.”  
  
“I already did.”  
  
“Tell him I’ll gut him.”   
  
Dean stops to read his text.   
  
SW: Hey   
  
He doesn’t turn around to confirm the sneaking suspicion that there's gray Prius parked somewhere among the rusted out Fords and Chevys.  
  
“Dean. Come in the house.” Jody leans against the open door.   
  
“I’m coming.”   
  
DS: Hey  
  
SW: Just wanted to say good night  
  
DS: Night  
  
SW: Talk to you tomorrow  
  
DS: Sam  
  
SW: Just talk   
  
Dean looks at Jody, who runs her finger across her throat, a promised decapitation.   
  
DS: Yeah okay  
  
SW: Check your mailbox.   
  
SW: You. Not your mom. You have to have shoes  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
Castiel is in the kitchen with his hand curled around a steaming mug. His face engenders a new and familiar amazement. Once again this man has revealed to Sam a new side of himself; he has never been this close to violence. Not murder. Damage.   
  
A few days ago, Sam had smacked Castiel to end the spew of caustic words towards Dean. That was worse than Sam had thought himself capable of doing. But it was no exaggeration. If Castiel ever raises his hand against Dean again, Sam will finish him.   
  
But this is not that. Not defense.  
  
This is a bone-deep, roiling current that threatens to engulf and turn Sam into the kind of monster he's always condemned as being depraved and poorly raised. His body was made for harm, for crunching limbs.   
  
Sam retreats to his room and secures the door, putting as much distance between himself and the person he yearns to hurt.

 

***

 

  
Dean leans with one shoulder against his locker staring down at the fresh message.   
  
SW: Should we grab dinner out or should I cook tonight?   
  
It had come in this morning after first period. Dean hasn’t responded because he has no fucking clue what to write. He takes a deep breath and thumbs in,   
  
DS: Practice   
  
Sam replies within seconds.   
  
SW: I know. I’ll pick you up after  
  
DS: Can’t tonight   
  
SW: K. Tomorrow?   
  
When Dean doesn’t reply, Sam calls. He stuffs the phone back into his pocket, grabs his backpack and heads toward class. On the third attempt, he wipes his hand over his mouth and resolves to turn the phone off. Instead, in a moment of weakness and stupidity, he dips into the corner by the stairwell and answers, “What?”   
  
Silence for a second. Then, “I miss you.”   
  
“You saw me yesterday.” Dean doesn’t ever intend to be an asshole. It happens naturally without effort. It requires more concentration not to be one.  
  
“Listen.”   
  
Dean is about to protest when Sam cuts him off.   
  
“Two years is nothing. I can wait, okay?” he says. “I understand if you want to wait until we're legal everywhere. I know you’re trying to look out for me and I know that you’re probably right. I just want you to know that I can wait. We don’t have to do anything, nothing physical, but I do need to see you. I… I can’t let Castiel… He’s taken so much from me already.”   
  
“Then, why are you fucking marrying him?” Dean shuts his eyes. That is not his business.   
  
“I told you this; I thought you understood.”   
  
“Yeah, well…” Dean hunches his shoulders and turns his back as a pair of girls giggle their way up the stairs.   
  
“Castiel needs a lot of help, Dean. Once he gets it, he’ll be able to stand on his own two feet. He’ll leave us alone. I’m sure of it. The best way to make sure he gets what he needs is to through my insurance. The only way I can do that is--”   
  
“Whatever. I got to get to class, man.”  
  
“Dean. Listen,” Sam shouts into the phone. "If I were to move to Kansas--"  
  
“Later, Sam.” Dean squeezes out the words as his throat closes for business.   
  
He hangs up, cuts off and puts away the phone away. He scrubs his face with both hands, forbidding himself to fucking feel anything.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Sam slouches on his way out of the meeting back to the cubicles. Mrs. Mosely rests a hand on his arm, “Sam, I know it’s not any of my place to say, but by the look of things I’m guessing you got girl trouble.”   
  
He huffs and laughs at the irony of her entirely off, though not entirely inaccurate, assumption. Beside Mrs. Mosely, Amelia’s face is pinched in a concerned expression.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Well, whatever it is, if you want to talk …”   
  
“Thanks. I appreciate that.” And Sam does, but where on earth would he even begin that conversation?   
  
  
***

  
They’re playing some 80s song when Dean strolls into the gym with hands in his pockets and parks it under a paper mache palm tree, watching people dance badly, like that prom scene in Napoleon Dynamite.  
  
JoAnna Winchester approaches, and Dean looks at his feet to avoid checking her out more than he already has. She's dressed in cotton candy. Her father was right to shut down the date. She looks like something to eat and here lately, Dean is one of those skinny kids with the puffed out, empty bellies and flies laying eggs on their eyelids.   
  
He hasn’t answered a call or text from Sam in two weeks. Didn’t answer the door any of the times the guy came to the apartment. Dean has been on hunger strike and Jo …   
  
She holds out a paper cup of punch for him. Dean wipes the adorable Shirley Temple curl from her face and it falls right back into place, hiding half of her smile.  
  
“You spike this?” he jokes.  
  
“You know me.”   
  
It’s that sparkling juice stuff they always serve at these things, but it takes the edge off the desert sands swirling in the back of Dean’s throat.   
  
“You look nice,” she says to cover for the way she’s looking him over.   
  
He has on the suit and tie from Sam, because it’s the nicest god damn thing he’s ever owned. That suit, along with his fucked up Chucks. “Yeah. You, too.”   
  
She looks down at herself, as if she doesn’t already know what she’s wearing. A little twist of her ankle to show off the two-inch heel on her sparkly Cinderella shoes. “Hope I don’t fall on my ass.”  
  
“You’ll be fine.”   
  
She smells like strawberry candy. Or pie. The kind of pie you gorge yourself on until it makes you sick and then you keep eating it anyway because it’s fucking delicious and you don’t give a shit if you explode and die and someone else has to clean up the mess.   
  
Dean massages the back of his neck and forces himself to look across the room, not looking for anything in particular. Just anything other than Jo’s cleavage, most assuredly accomplished through the modern sorcery of the push-up bra. That doesn’t make it any less dazzling.   
  
Garth waves, with his other spindly arm around a short, plump, brown-skinned girl. His shiner outshines Dean’s. He definitely took one for the team, the little idiot. Dean raises his punch in salute.   
  
Jo rises up on her tiptoes. Without thinking, he leans down to hear her better with a hand on her back. “You want to dance?”   
  
The warm breath on his ear sends a smoke signal to his dick. Dean shakes his head and backs up a little.  
  
Jo bites the corner of her waxy pink lip and nods. She takes a deep breath and starts to tell him something else. He doesn’t bite this time, and she has to hold his arm to steady herself as she reaches up to whisper, “My dad’s office in ten minutes.”   
  
Dean tries to say no. He tries to leave her there, waiting in that room, and flee the building. It would be the right thing to do. But there is a pit in his chest that’s been growing deeper and darker since the last time he saw Sam. Maybe Sam’s sister can fill it.   
  
He’s been jerking off multiple times a day, thinking about Sam, trying to force himself not to think about Sam, thinking about Sam anyway. Leaving his phone off and at home and feeling like he was going to implode and cease to exist. They never should have come to this stupid town.   
  
Jody still insists they go to this dinner thing with the Winchesters. But she had to work the last two weekends, so it’s the waiting game and all around fucking torture. Meanwhile, the coach has been treating Dean like he’s made out of guano, and Jody won't say what beans she spilled when she talked to him.   
  
It’s a matter of compulsion, not choice choice, when Dean finds himself at his coach’s door. He takes a breath, lets the ice rush through his veins in relief and disappointment that the door is locked.   
  
He takes a step back, shakes his head as clear as it’ll get and turns to walk up the hall. Maybe Jo was teasing him. That would only be fair. God knows he’s teased the hell out of her.  
  
The bass thumps in the gym. Behind him, the door creaks open. Dean turns. Jo smiles and gestures for him to hurry. Something flits in his gut, like a butterfly with broken glass for wings. He checks over his shoulder, jogs back and slips into the tiny, dark room.   
  
There’s a single candle on the desk, like Dean’s birthday cupcake from Jo’s parents. That ought to knock some sense into him. He promised the coach, but it takes honor to keep promises. If Dean ever had anything close to honor, he’s all out of it now. All he has is this aching need for affection that Sam bred into him with a few days of constant contact and heartless kindness.   
  
Heartless, because Sam knew he had someone. He knew that Castiel would be back, would need him and that Sam would fawn and fall on his knees to do whatever that pyscho wanted. Sam knew he belonged to Castiel. Dean can’t even be angry, because he knew it, too, from the beginning.   
  
He’s not angry. He’s fucking crushed and forcing every single smile, faking the swag, sick to his stomach with every bite he chokes down.   
  
Jo steps against him and his arms belong around her slim hips. She rolls her lips under her teeth, looking up at him with so much hope, reflecting back his desperation. When Dean kisses her it’s not because he wants her, but because he understands and regrets the excruciating frustration he’s caused her. He kisses her because he has never suffered anything like this pull toward Sam. If what Jo feels for him is anything like it, Dean owes her more than a kiss. He should be groveling at her feet for forgiveness.   
  
It isn’t until Jo reaches for his belt that Dean realizes just how far down her throat he’s plunged his tongue. He steps back, rock hard. His dick is completely on board with this substitution. She’s not Sam. Not even close, but she's legal in all 50 states, and single, and all Dean’s for the taking.   
  
Jo pushes him back against the wall and kisses the hell out of him while she loosens his tie, rucks his shirt out of his pants and opens his button. Dean catches her wrist as she’s working on the zipper. He pulls away, breathless. “Jo.”   
  
“I want this, Dean. I really want this.”   
  
“Yeah, I see that. Just … take it easy for a minute.” He turns his face away from her, struggling to get some of the blood back in his brain.   
  
She eases off with the kissing and revs up the petting: soft, warm palms sliding under his shirt, up his chest, nails blazing trails back down. Dean leans his head back against the wall, pins his hands behind his ass to keep from touching her.  
  
Jo peels down one, then the other of her baby pink spaghetti straps. “My dad expects me to stay a virgin forever. But that’s not how real life works.”   
  
She drops to her knees.  
  
“Aw, Jo.” Dean closes his eyes.   
  
Actually, he closes one eye, because he should not be looking at her. He is physically unable to get the other one to shut, because Dean is a human being and he wants nothing more than for her to suck him off while he imagines it's her brother.  
  
After all, Sam has Cas. Why shouldn’t Dean have something good?   
  
JoAnna is church-girl-good, praying to him with her breath on his dick. Raspberry-colored nails, cream-white lady fingers rubbing up and down his thighs. Holy God, she’s good.  
  
Dean is hard enough to pulverize nails and on the verge of disintegrating into fucking tears. Sam’s wrath, the coach’s, not to mention not wanting to hurt sweet Jo: there are so many good reasons not to touch this girl. And how can he not touch this girl?   
  
He puts his hands over hers to make them stop agitating the hell out of his skin.   
  
“I want my first time to be with you,” she whispers up at him, eyeing his dick like it’s the fucking holy grail and all she wants to do is drink. Dean would be selfish not to let her drink. “I know that you don’t want me to regret it. But I would never ever regret you. No matter what happens afterwards.”   
  
She reaches for his dick, lips parted.  
  
Some super-human force makes Dean stop her hand. He grinds his other palm against her forehead, holding her back. “Get up. Get up. Getupgetupgetup. God, please.”   
  
She stumbles to her feet and murmurs at her twinkly shoes. “Too forward, right? You wanted to hunt me.”  
  
“What?” Dean pulls up his pants, covering the evidence of how he feels about girls who go for what they want.  
  
She hangs her head and cries into her small hands. Dean looks at the door. This is his shot to escape.  
  
Instead of making tracks and leaving the little virgin in tears, he takes her bird-boned wrist and pulls her with him to her father’s chair. He draws her into his lap with her back to his chest.   
  
All he has to do is nudge and her thighs spread wide, legs draped over his. She drops her head back onto his shoulder and urges his left hand to cup her tit. This little girl dissolves like sugar in water, soaks his fingers hot and sweet. She moans and grinds against him, tiny body straining in his hands. He kisses her neck and whispers her name because that’s all it’ll take.  
  
She whimpers and shudders for an eternity. It always was magic, making a girl come: the tremble and quake, Dean responsible for that helpless cry.   
  
After a while, JoAnna is still again, panting softly. Dean wipes a tear from his face onto her shoulder and clears his throat. “Listen, Jo. I … I shouldn’t have done that. I--”   
  
“I love you,” she murmurs before she's fully caught her breath.  
  
“Jo.”   
  
“I do. I love you. Whether you love me back or not.”   
  
He squeezes his arm tight around her ribs. "You’re my best friend. That's unbreakable, okay?”   
  
She nods.   
  
“You wouldn't want me for a boyfriend. No one would. I don’t have any fucking clue how to do it.”   
  
“But I do. I would, if you did.” She turns her head, trying to brush the corner of her lips against his.   
  
The whole room smells like girl now. Dean’s head spins with it. He buries his face in Jo’s bun, breathes in tropical shampoo and hairspray chemicals. She’s still perched on his boner, making rational thought damn near impossible. He has to get out of this. Has to not fuck this up any worse. Has to not fuck Jo.  
  
Dean pushes her up out of his lap, but she spins and stands there with her knees touching his. She runs her fingers through his hair. He shakes his head and presses his chin to his chest, damn near hyperventilating. He needs to make her stop wanting him so that he can fucking do the right thing.   
  
“I’m going to tell you something, and I don't want you to get mad at me. But you are. You're going to get mad at me, and that's okay because it's my fault. I went after him and I always get what I fucking want.”  
  
This is a bad idea. But if Dean stops talking, he’s going to start screwing. His blood is boiling, dick bone-hard. That attention addict part of him is hooked on the way Jo wants him. It’s the only reason he’s been leading her on this long. And if he fucks her, she’ll never forget him as long as she lives, and who can resist that kind of immortality.   
  
Another selfish part of Dean wants to believe that Jo is his friend. And if someone other than his mother and Sam’s crazy fiancé knows what Sam and Dean had, that makes it more real. It was too brief with Sam, but it was so good. Dean will never have anything that good again.   
  
After this dinner thing, Kansas will be another rearviewmirror state. So he says it, because what difference does it make? “I wanted your brother the second I saw him.”  
  
“What?” Jo’s brown eyes burn almost black by the light of that one candle.   
  
“I, um... Sam and me -”   
  
“Sam? My brother, Sam? When did you even meet him?”   
  
“Your dad’s party.”   
  
“That was like a month ago.” Judging by the look on her face, Dean ought to have brought a vomit bag along for this ride.   
  
“A little more than that. We, uh--”  
  
“You what? You wanted him? What does that even mean?”   
  
Not too late to use that door. “Hate-free zone, right?”   
  
“No.” She shakes her head. “No way you're gay.”   
  
“You're right. I'm not.”   
  
“So…” Jo's anger melts into confusion. “Did you have sex with my brother? Is that what you're saying?”   
  
Dean exercises his right to remain silent. Anything else he says can and will be used against him.   
  
“Sam is, like, thirty.”  
  
“Twenty-seven,” he says, already forgetting that he was supposed to be shutting the fuck up.   
  
It takes a moment, but Jo’s eyes soften. Her head tilts as she reaches out to touch his cheek. “He molested you.”   
  
“No.”  
  
“That's why you're so weird about this.” Her fingers stroke down his face.   
  
This shit has gone all the way off the rails. “Jo.”   
  
“We have to tell my father.”

 


	24. Chapter 24

Dean pauses in front of the first Jack o’ Lantern he’d ever carved. It’s a hideous hack job, but it’s on the Winchester’s front porch for all the world to see. Mrs. Winchester put a green bulb in his and a brown one in Jo’s, so the eyes shine with the right colors. The swell of pride over his pumpkin is annihilated by the sinking dread at what he's about to do.

He reaches over and tugs down the hem of Jody’s skin tight, sin-black, pleather mini dress. “I can’t believe that’s what you wore.”

She frowns down at her plunging neckline. “What?”

“You look like a Robert Palmer video reject.” It’s too late to do anything about it. 

He pinches his lips together, rings the doorbell, and straightens the slim, black tie Sam bought him.

Dean had scrubbed the pits of the green shirt and laid it out overnight. It’s stiff and gross under his arms, but it looks good.

The second the coach opens the door, his face falls. Jody’s lights up like Christmas and she practically sings, “Hey Johnny.”

Dean looks back and forth between them. “You two...”

Coach Winchester shakes his head, but his glare tells a different story: one Dean suspects he already knows but never wants to hear out loud.

“Mm. Something’s smellin’ good in there.” Jody shoves past the old man and into the house.

Dean would apologize for his mother, but it’s not like he got to pick. The coach claps his shoulder, unspoken apology accepted. And maybe he’s got his own things to atone for.

By the time Dean steps into the kitchen, Jody has her nose over a steaming sauce pot. Mary Winchester is either scandalized, impressed or both. She can’t take her eyes off Jody’s six-inch heels.

Jo bounces into the kitchen and damn near shakes Jody’s hand off. “Mrs. Miller, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I just want to tell you have raised such a wonderful boy.”

Jody snickers and points at Dean like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard.

Dean crooks his arm over Jo’s shoulder and kisses her hair. She smells like a frigging lollipop. “It took a good girl like Jo to bring out the gentleman in me.”

Jody investigates the cabinets. Then, she leaves the kitchen, letting her voice trail off behind her. “Where’d that handsome husband of yours get off to?”

Mrs. Winchester stirs her sauce. With her lips pursed like this, the resemblance between her and her kids is clear. “Jo, honey, can you make sure everything’s on the table?”

Dean goes to find his mother before she breaks something, but he’s too late. Jody already has Coach Winchester cornered behind his bar. His back is turned, her hand on his shoulder as if she’s trying to get him to face her.

The coach notices Dean first. Then he and Jody both look up backing away from one another. Coach narrows his eyes at Dean and leaves the room in a dark cloud of silence.

“Jesus, Jody. What the fuck?” 

She downs the rest of the drink the coach abandoned. The doorbell rings just in time to spare Dean from having to hear her answer.

“I’ll get it.” Mrs. Winchester calls out from the kitchen.

 

***

 

Sam’s mom answers the door in her baking apron. She reaches up as he bends low to hug her.

“Sorry, we’re late.”

Castiel raises a hand over his heart in melodramatic sincerity. He holds the other hand in the air, as if taking an oath. “My fault entirely. Massive wardrobe crisis.”

Crisis is right. It took him two hours to decide what to wear, and that was after his customary hour-long cleansing ritual. The resulting ensemble is a plum-colored crushed velvet blouse, green, black and white plaid slacks and pearl-blue alligator skin shoes. His coal black hair is slicked back like he’s working for Al Capone.

Sam’s mother smiles politely and offers her hand. “And you must be Castle?”

“Castiel,” Sam corrects.

She smacks her forehead. "I knew I would mess it up. I tried to use those mnemonics, you know, where you have a picture that you associate with the name and--”

“Oh, it’s all right. We’ve actually met before, but it was in another lifetime. I don’t expect you to remember.” Cas is still shaking her hand, like he’s meeting a celebrity.

“I thought you looked familiar.” She gives Sam a strange smile. "Why don't you boys come in?"

Without further discussion, Castiel barges past her and into the house. “Smells divine, Mary.”

Sam drops his face to scratch his brow. There's no use trying to explain Cas.

His mother pats his arm. “He seems spirited.” 

 

She holds up the bottle Sam brought to examine the label. He hangs up his jacket and wipes his sweaty palms down his slacks. Bypassing the kitchen, Sam rounds the corner into the parlor.

 

***

 

Jody nudges Dean’s arm. “Is that…”

As he turns around, Castiel bounds from the kitchen, clapping his hands in celebration. “Honey, look. It’s the littlest heartbreaker. Did you know he would be here?”

Sam stops in his tracks, shoulders rising and falling with each heavy breath. Castiel giggles into his fist.

“Let’s go.” Dean presses a hand to Jody’s back and ushers her towards the door. Sam catches his elbow and Dean yanks away. “Get the fuck off me.”

When Jody leaps between them, Sam blinks down at her. “I just… I need to talk to him. Please.”

“No.” Jody cringes, as if the sight of Sam makes her want to blow chunks. “You get lost, you freak.”

“Mom.” Dean gestures for her to wait for him by the door.

“I hate you talking to him.”

“Just chill.”

Dean raises his hands to make it clear that Sam is not to touch, but lets the guy corral him into a corner.

“Why are you here?” Sam asks. 

“That’s what you wanted to say?”

“You won’t answer my calls. You…” Sam’s lip trembles, glassy eyes trying to lock with Dean’s.

“We’re done, okay? Do you need me to say it any more plain than that?”

“Why?” Sam asks, sounding like he’s about to shatter. After a deep breath, he shakes his head. “No.”

“No?”

“No. I can’t… It can’t be over. We haven’t even really gotten started.” He reaches for Dean’s arm. “Let’s just get through whatever the hell tonight is and then… we’ll figure something out. Whatever it takes, okay?”

Dean doesn’t agree to anything, but he doesn’t argue. “Why are you here?”

“My mother said it was important.”

Dean’s eyes wander to the coach’s bar where Jody and Castiel are plundering the hell out of his stash.

“I was with him for six years, and he never met my parents,” Sam says.

“Whatever, dude.” Dean tries to walk around him.

Sam presses his giant palm to the center of Dean’s chest. "Not whatever."

"Dinner!" Mrs. Winchester’s voice chimes from the kitchen. 

It distracts Sam long enough for Dean to slip past him. Jo steps into the room and the smile melts from her face.

It’s ten different kinds of fucked up, but at this point, it’s a matter of self-defense when Dean slings his arm over her shoulder. Sam’s mouth twitches, the tortured look on his face reflecting how Dean feels.

“We should go eat.” The only reason Dean doesn’t insist he and Jody split altogether is out of respect for Mrs. Winchester.

It takes a lot of work to prepare all that food and the meal is probably going to be the only good thing about his last night in Kansas.

Jo nuzzles her forehead against Dean’s chin as they walk to the dining room. She wraps her arm around his waist and whispers, “You have to tell Daddy. I can’t do it. It has to come from you. But he will protect you, I promise. When he hears about this, he’ll kick that freak the hell out of here and you won’t have to look at him ever again.”

 

***

 

Jo fits perfectly under Dean’s arm. He's so comfortable with her. They move so naturally together. They make sense in a way Sam knows he and Dean never will.

Sam stands, rooted to his spot on the floor, until his mother curls her arm around his and escorts him to the table.

 

***

 

Once everyone is seated, Mrs. Winchester squeezes the coach’s wrist. “John, would you say the grace?”

Jody fights back her laughter. The others mimic him in bowing their heads, hands solemnly clasped over crystal salad plates, souls awaiting the blessing. 

Coach Winchester raises his dark eyes on Sam. “What is he doing here?”

Mrs. Winchester reaches across the table to touch Sam’s hand. “I invited our son to dinner.”

“Why didn’t you talk to me first?”

“Because I had a feeling you might behave the way you’re behaving now.”

“So you went behind my back?” The old man’s fists coil on either side of his plate.

“This is a family dinner, John. Sam is a part of this family.”

The coach smashes his hands on the table and knocks over his chair when he stands. The cutlery bounces and clangs back down askew on the white tablecloth. “This is my house, Mary!”

“John, please.”

“I don’t have a thing to say to him.”

Sam is the only person not looking at the coach; he’s too busy staring at Dean.

The coach shakes his head and starts to leave the room.

“Dad?” Sam rises slowly from his seat. He’s half a foot taller than his father, but he seems small and somewhere around half his age. “I know I let you down...”

Coach Winchester stops in his tracks to glare at Sam. “Let down? A missed pass is a letdown. A lost game, hell, a shitty season is a letdown. The moment you turned your back on the game, you turned your back on me.”

“Dad.”

“I see you, all I see is failure. And I can't stand to look at it." Coach takes a stilted breath. "You had the chance to be a superhero, Sam. And you chose to be a gay accountant.”

 

***

No one gasps. No mouths fall agape at the revelation. Jo looks angry. Dean is studying his plate while his mother watches like they're on television and Cas' expression is impossible to read. Sam's mother’s face is blank and drawn, but she doesn’t seem surprised. 

“You knew?”

Sam’s father scowls like he wishes he had snuffed his son in his cradle. “Before you did. How could I not know? Bet you don’t remember how you used to drool over the muscle magazines even before you started school.”

Sam doesn’t remember it, and he’s too stunned to respond.

“You remember being ring bearer at your mom’s cousin’s wedding?” Sam’s father continues, “How you told everybody in the church that you were going to marry Carlos Vega?”

Dean’s face is a mask. There's no telling what he’s thinking.

“Do you remember that, Sam?” His father’s voice snaps him out of his oncoming panic.

“Carlos was my best friend in kindergarten.” That is all Sam recalls.

“Yeah, but that’s not what you said.”

“Oh, John, he was five. It was adorable.” Sam's mother tries to touch her husband’s hand. “Everyone laughed.”

“They laughed because he wasn't their kid… Fifth grade. Scout trip. You remember that?”

Sam has the scars to be sure he never forgets that.

Somehow, though, he's only remembered the beating, not the cause of it. He always remembers his father’s cold wrath, but not how his ten-year-old self had incurred it. In one cruel rush, the whole thing comes flooding back, like water bursting through a levee.

By some miracle, Sam is unable to cry about it now.

 

***

 

Mrs. Winchester rests her hand on the coach’s. “We don’t need to dwell in the past anymore, John. Sam. This is supposed to be a celebration. Our family is growing. Can we just celebrate that? Mrs. Miller?”

Jody looks at her and at Dean, but doesn’t answer.

“Okay. We’ll start with Sam’s news.” Mrs. Winchester motions to Sam and Castiel. “They’re getting married. Isn’t that lovely?”

“Sam is already married,” the coach says.

Dean concentrates on forcing air in and out of his burning lungs.

Sam hangs his head. “I talked to Ruby…”

“Oh, how is she?” Mrs. Winchester asks. “Tell me that you two have patched things up.”

Sam shifts his fork one inch to the left. “We talked. Yes.”

“Where is she? What is she doing?” She rests her elbows on the table, and her chin on her folded hands, awaiting a full report.

“She, uh, she lives in Florida. Near her parents.” Sam clears his throat. “She has a daughter. Luna.”

Dean’s mother points her fork at him. “She’s yours, isn’t she?”

As soon as Jody makes the accusation, Sam’s eyes fly to Dean. Dean’s face warms, and he can only imagine what shade of pink he must be. If Sam is trying to be inconspicuous, he’s doing a really shitty job of it. Dean shifts in his seat and stares at his plate.

“Luna?” Mrs. Winchester repeats the little girl’s name as if it were a prayer.

Sam’s daughter.

"Johnny," Jody calls after Coach Winchester as he flees the room.

“I can’t right now, Jody. I just can’t.”

 

***

Sam’s mother and sister huddle on the sofa like mourners, in their simple, black dresses, with their heads bowed. Cas and Jody are vultures, buzzing around his father’s bar again. Sam gives a quick nod towards the steps and hopes that Dean will follow.

Everything seems smaller, darker than it was six years ago. There’s no reason to get sentimental or to be offended that they’ve turned his old bedroom into an office. Dean alone is all Sam wants right now.

His eyes are drawn by the shuffle of Dean’s ratty basketball sneakers over the hardwood in his parents’ hallway. “You were supposed to buy new shoes.”

“Yeah, well. I didn’t.” Dean’s hands are in his pockets. 

At least he’s wearing the black jeans, shirt and tie Sam bought him. Apart from the shoes, he looks perfect.

“Your money is at the apartment. I’ll get it back to you.”

“Why are you being like this? And what’s with you and Jo?”

“Jealousy’s not a good look, man.” Dean picks a pad of Post-it notes from the table and says, “I think our parents are fucking. My mom and your dad. How nutty is that shit?”

“I definitely get that impression.” Sam shuts the door. “Listen. I’ve been researching the hell out of this thing. Missouri. My apartment, we… I could definitely get into some serious trouble if we keep… but here, in Kansas, they’ve got these bullshit criminal sodomy laws on the books. Point one on the statute targets gay men specifically. It’s unconstitutional, bogus garbage, but it’s the fucking law. It’s almost like the best thing would be for us to move to fricking Iowa.”

Through Sam’s entire legal tirade, Dean has been thumbing through the user manual for the inkjet printer. “What’s with you and boy scouts?” 

"Me and ... yeah." Sam slumps to the floor with his back against the wall and lays out the story of his scars in Technicolor, sparing no detail he can remember.

~

 _It was just a stupid dare. Sam didn’t even like Matt Carter. He had nursed a raging crush on Matt’s brother, Nathan, for most of_ middle _school, but that was later. Matt was cute, but he also pushed people around. Sam had never liked him, not even as a person._

 _For some reason Sam could no longer remember, Matt got it into his skull that Sam would love to kiss him. For the longest time, Sam had ignored his taunting, but at the end of the day, when Matt dared him, instead of working on the bonfire like he was supposed to be doing, Sam had grabbed hold of Matt’s ears and sucked on his mouth until the stupid idiot stumbled_ backwards _and fell over a log. It was priceless._

_The whole troop flew, squealing, up to the campsite like they had seen a mountain lion. Sam swaggered up behind them, light as air, and big as Paul Bunyan - for taking the bet, not for kissing Matt. The kissing had just been slimy and gross. He couldn't figure out why anyone would ever want to do it._

_By the time Sam was nearly_ up _the hill, his dad was storming toward him with a stick in his hand. His dad had never hit him, so Sam didn’t even have the good sense to cower or run._

 _ _In Bermuda the summer before that,_ Sam had been stung by a jellyfish. When the first blow struck his shoulder, it burned a lot like that. Only it was _worse, _because it was coming from his dad who was wearing an expression like he planned to murder Sam, one sting at a time._

_Sam’s dad spun him around and shoved his face into a tree. Stunned, Sam grasped at the trunk to keep from falling. His dad tugged down his khaki shorts in one quick movement. Just his shorts. The underwear, he left in place. Tiny mercies._

_“Boys don’t kiss boys, Sam.” Each syllable came with a searing slice over the backs of his thighs. “Say it.”_

_As Sam remembers it, he wasn’t so much crying as gasping for air, trying not to asphyxiate, while hot tears poured down his face. How was he supposed to speak when he couldn’t even breathe?_

_“SAY IT, SAM!”_

_“Boysdontkissboys,” The words blurted out as he sucked in a jagged breath._

_“Boys don’t marry boys.” Again, there was a twack from the switch and a shriek from Sam for every word._

_“Daddy, please.” Sam tried to turn around._

_His father pushed him back into place, fist clamped around his neck, pinning his cheek against the bark as he lashed. “Say it, Sam.”_

_Piss warmed the front of his Captain America Underoos and slid,_ tickly _down his leg. His father never_ let _up. “Say it, goddamn it.”_

_“Boys don’t … marry boys.”_

_“Boys like girls. Boys love girls.” One swat for each word._

_Sam’s legs were on fire, as sure as if he had been burning at the stake. His father could have hit him a hundred or a thousand times more; it wouldn't have hurt any worse. He couldn't have cried out any louder. “Boys love girls.”_

_"Are you a boy, Sam? Are you?” Sam’s father dug his thumb into the side of his throat._

_His whole body ignited with pain; the world spun before his eyes. He tried to respond to the trick question with the wavering hope that his father would let him live. “Yes, Daddy.”_

_“Say it.”_

_“I'm a boy.” It had made him think of Pinocchio. Sam was old enough to know his nose wasn’t going to grow. And old enough to know that, somehow, his father was making him lie._

_“Say it.”_

_“I'm a boy.”_

_His father held him in place. “And boys do what?”_

_“Like girls.”_

_“You got that, Sam?”_

_“Yes, Daddy.”_

_“You know what happens to boys who kiss boys? They die. People kill them because they're dirty. Is that what you want?”_

_“No, sir.”_

_His father stepped back and dropped the stick. Sam clung to the tree until his legs buckled and he slid to his knees in the cold piss-mud._

_When he was able to turn around, the whole troop was standing on the crest of the hill, watching the Winchesters like they were the main attraction in the Coliseum._

_Sam watched his father’s back as he marched off. In the distance, an engine turned over, and wheels peeled out as he left the campground._

_Mr. Carter, Matt’s_ dad _, who was the_ troopmaster _tried to scoop Sam up, but it hurt his legs too bad. So, he made Matt and another kid help Sam up to his tent where Mr. Carter put some kind of ointment on the gashes on the backs of his legs and the scrapes on his face._

_When Sam’s father came back, he smelled like sweat and beer, like he always did after bad fights with Sam’s mother._

_Through the walls of his tent, Sam overheard Mr. Carter saying, “I’m not telling you how to raise your boy, John.”_

_“Make sure you don’t.”_

_“But some of those things are pretty deep. He’s going to need some stitches.”_

_“He’ll be fine,” Sam’s father said. “You take care of your boys. I’ll handle Sam.”_

~

“And now, you know that.”

Dean's fingers curl in Sam’s hair, massaging his scalp and making him rest his head on Dean’s shoulder. “Your dad’s a fucking asshole.”

Sam doesn’t reply.

“To give up his son over fucking football. You realize he’s insane, right?”

“He always said it was the family business.”

"It doesn't matter." Dean grips Sam's chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. “It's complete bull. And who fucking cares that you're an accountant. You’re not going to cry over a maniac like that. I won’t allow it.”

Sam huffs and nods his agreement.

They sit in silence for a timeless moment before Dean stands and snags a paper weight football from the desk. “This used to be your room?”

Sam points at the corner that now houses a file cabinet. “My bed was right there.”

“Bet you got laid a lot.” Dean presses the power switch on the printer and the machine hums to life.

“I guess I could have. I was basically mauled at Homecoming my freshman year.”

“Yeah. You told me about that. Girl probably thought you wanted it.”

“I didn’t." Sam’s stomach turns at the thought of Cara Jones in his lap with her dress hiked up around her waist. "I dated this girl, Jessica, for the rest of high school. Super Christian, so she didn’t want to have sex any more than I did. I mean, I wanted to. Just not with her. The guys on the team assumed we were doing it. That was good enough for me.”

Dean hunts for something else to distract himself. Sam doesn’t try to force eye contact. Instead, he points to the far wall. “I had four Tom Brady posters. I was so into him.”

Dean nods like he can see them lined up on the wall. “Yeah, he’s hot. His wife, too.”

Unable to stand the distance and the uncertainty any longer, Sam takes the paperweight from Dean and sets it down. He holds the kid’s busy hands in his own and swallows thickly. “What do you think of me now?”

Dean looks down at their hands rather than at Sam’s face. “What am I supposed to say to that?”

“That you hate me. Because I’m just like your father.”

Dean pulls away and fiddles with a stapler. He paces the room, putting space between them again. “You know how many times I wished my father would have just split and left us the fuck alone instead of chasing us around the fucking country? You’re nothing like that dirtbag. Plus, you didn't even know, right?”

The stapler pops open, sending a tiny rain of shiny binders to the floor. Dean looks down at them  before he plops into the black leather office chair, swiveling back and forth.

Sam leans forward with his hands on Dean’s knees to make him be still. He prostrates himself before the boy and holds his flawless face between trembling hands. “Would you look at me, please?”

 

***

 

If Dean was in his right state of mind, he would have told Sam to stop being a girl. As it is, he feels like a fucking girl himself: all overheated and melty, heart beating out of control. It never fails. This is what Sam reduces him to.

Sam lifts up onto his knees to kiss him and Dean holds him back by his shoulders. “You need to go see your kid.”

Sam shakes his head and lowers his eyes. “She’s not … I mean, I’m pretty much a sperm donor.”

“Do you know what it’s like growing up without a dad, Sam? It’s bullshit. This kid has a father, and if you want to call yourself a man, you need to fucking suck it up, and go see her.”

Sam scratches the back of his neck and eventually nods, earnest and glassy eyed. “Yeah. Of course, I know, you’re right. Doesn’t mean I’m not scared out of my mind.”

“How old is she?”

“Five.”

“Little kids don’t bite.”

“Actually, some of them do.” Sam kisses the back of Dean’s hand where it lays on the armrest. "Would you go with me?”

Dean’s mouth falls open, and he snorts out a strange laugh.

“She should know you. Right from the start.”

“That’s … kind of a huge deal." Dean pins his gaze to the clock on the wall. "Look, I wasn't going to say anything, but we're leaving tomorrow.”

Sam lets the words sink in. Then, he shakes them away. “What if I don't want you to go?”

“Tough.”

“It doesn't matter where you wind up. I will come see you every single weekend.”

Dean’s laughs it off, insides roiling.

Without warning, Sam pulls at his fly. That would have been fine if they weren't in his parents’ house - Dean’s coach’s house with everyone downstairs. He glances at the door. “Dude.”

“I need you now.” Sam’s voice is shaky, fingers fumbling with his button.

He pushes Dean back against the chair to slide down his zipper. Dean lifts his hips so Sam can tug his jeans and briefs down, just enough. Sam licks his lips and Dean’s shaft twitches back at him, plumping up as Sam bows to place a kiss on the tip. Dean grips the arms of the chair and watches, because if he does anything else, he’ll lose it. Sam pushes the fabric of Dean’s shirt out of the way, and he tucks it under his chin. Sam sticks out his thick tongue like a little kid. Then, he presses Dean’s cock to his stomach so he can lick a hot stripe from his balls to the tip. He blinks slowly, hazel eyes turned up for approval.

“God.” Dean’s hand quivers on its way to Sam’s neck.

He takes him in to the hilt and hums, sending vibrations rippling through Dean's system. Eyes closed,  teeth clenched to keep back the sounds welling up in his throat, the fingers of Dean's hands twine in Sam’s hair to hold him still so he can pumps his hips, fucking up into Sam’s moaning mouth.

Sam grips his thighs and pulls off for a moment to catch his breath. His eyes water and he lets the tears trail down his face. “I don't want you to go.”

It isn't another two minutes before Dean shoots down Sam’s throat, drowning in the tidal wave of pleasure crashing through his veins. His back arches off the chair and he bites his tongue to keep from shouting out loud.

Before he catches his breath, he sinks to his knees on the floor in front of Sam and reaches for Sam’s belt with one hand. It would be great if it weren’t for all the goddam staples biting into his knees through the denim. 

Sam nuzzles his cheek. “You don’t have to do anything.”

“Would you shut up?” Dean sucks Sam’s tongue into his mouth, savoring the salty aftertaste of himself. “You have to be quiet. I mean it.”

Sam nips his bottom lip. “I’m always quiet.”

“Like hell, you are.” Dean grips a handful of Sam’s Beast over his slacks.

The damn thing reaches halfway to his knee. Sam rubs his huge hands over Dean’s shoulders and down his arms while Dean sets him free.

 _What the fuck. This is the last time Dean is ever going to see him._ He turns around in Sam’s arms and juts his hips back to grind his ass against the massive, seeping hard on.

Sam’s arm closes around Dean’s waist, holding him up and in place. “I don’t have any lube, Dean.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

For the first time in his life, Dean wants to be fucked. More specifically, he wants Sam to fuck him, right here in the bedroom of this house where he had to hide all those years.

He lowers his chest onto the seat of the office chair, wets his fingers in his mouth and reaches back to open himself up. It’s been a long time; he’s tight as hell and Sam is huge. They’re both going to have to be patient, or Dean is going to feel it for a week. Then again, that wouldn’t be the worst thing that ever happened.

Sam kisses the back of his neck as the Beast dips into the crease of his ass. A warm hand clutches Dean’s waist. Sam’s hips reel back and forth, dragging his dick between his cheeks, slipping over his hole. Dean is as ready as he’s ever going to be.

All of a sudden, he’s being lifted and twisted like he doesn’t weigh anything until they are kneeling, facing each other again.

Sam licks his own hand, arches his back and angles his shaft down to lodge himself between Dean’s thighs. Dean locks his knees together and lets Sam pull him close, staring hard into his eyes.

The first few presses forward and back are calm and steady. A low hum sounds in Sam’s throat, like an engine revving. It doesn’t take long for that to grow into a rumble and then, a growl. The louder he gets, the harder he rams.

“Sam,” Dean whispers/gasps, trying to get him to shut up.

Sam folds his arms all the way around Dean’s torso and snaps his hips in earnest. “Fuck.”

Dean lifts off his knees every time Sam drives forward. He isn’t groaning anymore; he is full on sobbing. Sam’s fingers slip through Dean’s hair. “God. Don't fucking leave me. Dean, please.”

That hand settles on the back of his neck and holds so tight it borders on painful. Sam whimpers and thrashes against Dean’s body, not chasing his climax, but like it’s dogging him.

“Shhh. It's okay. I'm right here.” 

Sam’s arms close even tighter around him as he wails like a wounded animal.

“Sam.” 

Dean’s spine is bent at an awkward, uncomfortable angle. His head lolls back in Sam’s hand. Sam’s mouth latches onto his throat, making greedy, wet noises. Dean wills himself to let go. To give Sam his way. To let this big, beautiful, broken man use Dean to make himself feel good. “That’s it, Sam. Ah, God. Whatever you need.”

The doorknob turns slowly, like in a horror film. The door opens even slower. At least that’s how it seems. In a matter of seconds that stretch out like minutes, Coach Winchester’s face morphs from curious to horrified. 

 

***

 

“Jesus Christ, Sam. Get off of him.” Sam’s father grabs him by the scruff of his shirt and tosses him across the room. 

In the scuffle, the chair overturns, one of its steel arms scraping Sam’s back deep enough to leave a fresh scar.

Dean fixes his clothes, avoiding the coach’s eyes while Sam pulls up his pants and stands on the balls of his feet, ready to fight, if necessary. “I love him, Dad. I don't care how old he is or what you think of it. I’m completely in love with this kid.”

Dean’s face has gone vacant again. It doesn't matter; Sam will fight this battle for both of them.

“He's your brother.”

“What?” Sam and Dean reply in unison.

Sam’s father does not repeat himself. He glares at Sam until the words begin to sink in, even if they still don’t make any sense. John Winchester grabs a fistful of Sam’s shirt. “That doesn’t leave this room. You understand me? You even dream of telling your mother, I’ll kill you.” His eyes flicker to Dean before he moves to the door. “Get yourselves together and come downstairs, for Christ’s sake.”

 

***

 

Sometimes when old men call you son, it's out of a sense of entitlement. Sometimes it's something else.

“I just … I need…" Dean searches the room for something, nothing, anything.

He leans away when Sam tries to smother him in his overlong arms. Dean needs space, air, an explanation, and to get the fuck out of this place. 

Mary and Jo have disappeared. For a welcome change, Castiel is quiet, sitting with his legs crossed, twirling a tumbler of something Dean could use a shot of right about now. Jody nurses a drink as well. She raises her eyes when he comes down the steps.

“So, what the fuck?”

“You guys are really loud,” she mumbles.

“Jody. What. The. Fuck?”

Coach Winchester has the nerve to say, “Don’t talk to her that way.”

Dean’s head snaps around to glare at the man and then back at Jody. She scowls at Sam, who has just come down the steps, and then lowers her face. “I told you to stay away from him.”

“You knew?” Dean whispers, unable to speak the words any louder, amazed he’s not screaming at the top of his lungs.

“I found out about Sam today.” She glances at the coach. “I recognized John the second I saw him, of course, but I didn't know he had other children... We didn't do a lot of talking.”

The coach stares at his feet as Jody explains.

“Listen, Dean. John and I have decided…” She looks at the old man again. “It’s for the best if you stay here.”

“What?”

Dean yanks away from her reaching hand. He bolts out of the door and is halfway up the block when his mother pads up behind him, having abandoned the whore shoes to catch up. “Dean.”

“No.” He doesn’t even turn to look at her lying face, and flinches when her hand brushes his arm. “Don’t fucking touch me. Do not talk to me.”

“Dean, your dad…”

He stops in his tracks. “He’s not my father. How can he be my father, Jody? It’s not possible.”

“There are some things that... “ She scratches the side of her neck and touches her lips. “You just have to trust me on this. He can keep you safe here.”

“So, he’s not my dad?” His eyes narrow, watching her for confirmation.

She nods. “No, he is. And I can’t explain it now. And you can’t tell Mary Winchester. She’d… She wouldn’t understand. You’d crush her, and you’re not like that. You’re not cruel like that.”

“What’s to understand?” Dean’s laugh borders on hysteria. “John Winchester fucked you when you were a kid, ran off, and left you to … “ Dean pauses, unable to bridge the widest gap in this story. “Who is the guy? The guy that’s always after us? If Winchester is my dad, who the hell is that?”

“I can’t … Maybe someday I can tell you everything. Right now, this is your family.” She gestures behind him to the house. “John is your father, but no one else can know that. We just thought it would be good for you to know, so that you and Sam ... You told me you were going to knock that off.”

“Yeah, well. You told me my father was the creep in the leather jacket.”

“I'm sorry I lied. And I…” She walks backward, away from him.

“Jody.” Dean’s feet might as well be superglued to the spot. “You seriously want to just leave me here?”

“Do you know the chances… This is the best… It’s…” When her lip starts to tremble, she turns her back and hurries away.

“Jody!” He calls after her, unable to move. “Mom?”

 

***

 

Dean stares into his cup: Schnapps with a splash of tea. Mildred crosses her arms over her chest. “Well, you don’t have to tell me the details, but you’ve done enough moping to know that doesn’t fix a thing. Come, help me clean this attic.”

As he’s rising to follow her up the stairs, the doorbell rings. Mildred answers and it's Sam’s voice at the door. Dean doesn't even have the energy to escape through the back door like he should do. When Sam enters the room, Dean rolls his eyes and looks away.

“My mom thought you would be here.”

Mildred plants her fists on her hips. “If you were supposed to be hiding out, you should have said so.”

Sam stands there like he has some announcement to make, but there isn’t anything to say. He lowers himself beside Dean on the couch. Mildred looks between them, and Dean can see the precise moment the lightbulb goes on in her skull. Her mouth opens wide, and she says, “Sam. Would you like some tea?”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Baker.”

“Then, I’ll leave you boys to it.”

She’s hardly left the room before Sam tries to twist their fingers together. “What did your mother say?”

Dean folds his arms over his chest, keeping his hands to himself. “She’s fucking leaving me here.”

“You mean…” Sam sighs and lowers his head. “Thank God. I mean, you know how much better off you’ll be, right?"

Dean has never wanted to hit anyone more in his entire life.

"And that’s why. That has to be why my father said that. And my mom said the family was growing, even before she knew about Luna, because… They had this all planned out. We’re supposed to _act_ like brothers. Not that we are. We can’t be. You know that, right?” Sam grips Dean's knee. “We’re not brothers, Dean. Look at me. We’re not. We can’t be.”

 


	25. Chapter 25

Something is wrong with this picture: no crack in the ceiling. The bed is cushy, but it’s no cloud. That kicked-in-the-gut feeling of waking up without Sam is just another one of those things Dean has to get over. Eventually, it'll be like it never happened.

He's not in the world’s most amazing bed. Also not a couch, and there's bacon on the air. It takes Dean a second to piece together where he is. Life with the Winchesters is like landing in Purgatory.

Dean takes a quick shower and heads downstairs. Jo looks up from her cereal, hair damp, eyes half shut. It’s an intrusion to see her like this, and he glances away.

“Happy Halloween.” Mrs. Winchester hands him a plate spilling over with bacon and eggs touched off by a pumpkin-shaped pancake. “Did you sleep well?”

He nods and thanks her for the food.

“We’re going to get that room fixed up just the way you like. If you prefer a different color, John’ll take you down to the Home Depot. But I warn you; he's going to make you do the painting. You’re going to have to get a little dirty, but if you want posters or… I don’t know how kids are decorating these days. Jo’s got Hello Kitty.”

“I do not.”

Dean has been in her room that once and she does.

Mrs. Winchester gets back to her griddle. “Whatever you want. Cars? Ball players. Whatever makes you feel at home, Dean.”

How about the backseat of a Ford POS?

He nods again and sits next to Jo. 

He hasn’t called his mom. She hasn’t called him. It’s not like he can’t understand. Jody dragged his sorry ass around for sixteen years. He can’t blame her for wanting to be free, just can’t understand why she’s lying. The idea that his coach is his father is an insane, unnecessary lie.

Dean stops thinking about it and eats his fucking breakfast.

“Morning.” Coach Winchester kisses his wife’s cheek, accepts the thermos from her hand and grabs a banana on his way out of the back door.

Dean narrows his eyes. How did he ever admire this phony? Here he is acting all husbandly when he doesn’t even have the balls to tell Mrs. Winchester the truth about Jody. Whatever the truth is.

Jo drops her bowl in the sink and gives Dean a drowsy smile. “We ride with dad.”

 

***

Sam drags himself into the kitchen feeling like a thousand-year-old carcass.

“Good morning Sammy. Doesn’t look like you slept much.”

“I told you not to talk to me.”

Cas’ chuckle explodes into brazen laughter. “You have a lot of rules for someone who’s been fucking his baby brother.”

“He's not my-”

“You know, there are ways of verifying that, if you’re so certain. But I can understand that you don't actually want to know.” Castiel covers his mouth, pretending to hold back the hilarity. 

Sam walks back out of the kitchen and locks himself in his bedroom. He couldn't eat if he wanted to. 

 

***

 

As the door creaks open, Dean catches the flash of a silver cask before Coach Winchester slams his drawer shut. The door snicks closed behind Dean, and he stands in the coach’s airless office with his hands clasped behind his back, spine arrow straight, staring at an empty corner. “Yes, sir.”

“Have a seat, Dean.”

“No, thank you, sir.”

“We should talk, son.”

Dean recoils at the word. “I disagree. Sir.”

“This is just as strange for me as it is for you.”

“I doubt that.” Dean’s eyes dart about the room looking for a safe place to land.

Coach Winchester scrubs a paw over his stubble. “Jody … is a remarkable woman. What did she… How much do you remember?”

“Not you.”

A wince flickers over the coach’s face and clears again. “No. I didn’t expect that you would.”

“Can I go, sir?”

After a moment of deliberation, the coach nods. “Course.”

 

***

 

Sam taps the screen on his phone, but still, finds no reply to his message.

SW: We still on?

 

***

 

Dean is the last one to his locker after class. Drenched and muddy, he feeds in his combination and peels off the filthy shirt to his gym uniform as Ash comes in from the showers.

“‘Sup, Miller?” Ash rolls up his towel and smacks Dean’s ass.

Dean pulls his clean clothes together. Before he can overthink it, he turns around and says, “Hey. I want you to leave Garth alone.”

Ash smiles like a barracuda. “Looking out for your cock warmer?”

“He's a good kid.”

“Is he good?” Ash leans back against the locker and runs his tongue over his sharp teeth like he’s got something stuck in there. “Think I should try him out?”

“Ash, just leave him alone. It was funny. Just let it go now.”

“Or what, oh captain, my captain?” Ash inches closer. 

It’s almost imperceptible, but it must be happening, because is being crowded between Ash’s naked body and his locker door.

“No or else. Just knock it off. As a personal favor.”

“So, it's personal?” Ash licks his lips.

An ass kicking is becoming more and more likely. “I consider Garth a friend, so, yes.”

“But other fags are still open season, right?”

“What is your deal?”

“I don't like gays, man," Ash says. "They should all be exterminated. I don't want them in my school. Definitely not in my locker room. Is it okay with you if we have faggots in the locker room? Looking at your junk. Checking out your ass. Trying to get up next to you, breathe in your ear. Hump your leg." Ash starts fucking the air, his limp dick flapping all around. "That's disgusting, right? That's my deal. No set of rules is going to change it. I don’t like fucking faggots, and they won't be tolerated."

“Just leave him alone.” Without turning his back, Dean shuts his locker.

Thank fuck, that asshole is gone when he comes out of the shower. Once Dean pulls his hoodie on, he checks his phone.

 

***

 

Sam sticks his cell in his back pocket and drops his spoon into his teacup. Amelia has stirred up the courage to talk to him without Mrs. Mosely standing by, so Sam smiles when she eeks out, “How was your weekend?”

“Mildly insane. How was yours?”

She looks up at him, brown eyes dripping with an enchantment she ought to direct anywhere else. He searches the office for another person to pull into the conversation.

“I visited my mom. That’s about it.”

Sam nods.

“Missouri said you’ve signed up for two tonight.”

“Missouri?”

“Mrs. Mosely.”

“Oh.”

“So, you’re bringing someone?” Amelia peers into her cup like she’s trying to tell the future in the coffee grounds.

“I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to make it. My… uh, plus-one is… “ he scratches the back of his neck.

“Oh. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No. No. Just… We’ll see.” He clears his throat. “But you’re going, right?”

She nods and grins down at her feet.

“That’s good.” Sam sips his tea and wonders when it’s polite to slip away.

 

***

 

The doorbell rings and Jo pauses A Nightmare on Elm Street. She pulls up her surgical mask and totes the bowl of candy to the door. Dean has been watching the movie with his Vader mask on because he can’t get enough of how it amplifies his breath. He ignores the irony that the costume belongs to Coach Winchester.

He joins her at the door, grinning at the wide, terrified eyes of the tiny lobster and the little princess who hold out half-full plastic cauldrons.

“You can each take two.” Jo holds the bowl low enough for them to help themselves.

The parents tell the kids to say thank you. They repeat it like the little automatons they are and skip off to the next house. Dean chuckles and watches them down the walkway. As Jo closes the door, he asks, “When do your folks get home?”

“When they feel like it because they’re both adults.” She trudges back to the living room and drops the bowl on the coffee table so hard that half the candy sloshes over the sides.

Dean raises his mask. “You’re just going to be mad about this forever?”

“Or until you stop going out with my brother.”

“I’m not…” He sighs. “It’s not like that anymore.”

Jo plants her fists on her hips and glares in a way that is improbably fierce for such a petite girl. “If a guy was coming to pick me up and take me to a party and we had fucked like two days before...”

Dean stops mid-stride, flinching at the language.

“I’m sorry. I would call that a date.” She tosses her mask onto the massacred candy and crosses her arms. “And if the guy was ten years older than me, I would say he was a freak. I don’t care how legal it is. Sam is a freak for wanting you.”

“I’m not arguing with that.”

Jo sucks her teeth and rolls her eyes. When Dean’s phone starts to buzz in his pocket, she scowls at it like it’s a hand grenade. “It’s weird.”

“It’s not weird.” Dean types in a reply. “And the weird part’s over anyway.”

“Then don’t go.” Her offense is already crumbling. Her breath hitches, voice falters. “Stay with me. We can watch Freddy movies, like, all night.”

Dean smiles. “I’m only going because I said I would. I won’t be gone long. We can keep watching Freddy when I get back.”

 

***

 

As if Dean’s mouth and his eyes aren’t already distracting enough, the mask leaves only those features and his square jaw visible. Sam’s thumb runs over his lower lip. “God.”

Dean jerks away from the touch. “Hey.”

“Sorry," Sam says. "You look amazing.”

“Yeah, well. Charlie is a genius.” Dean curls and unfurls his fist and then runs his gloved hand down the chest armor of a suit identical to Bale’s in Dark Knight - complete with Kevlar. “What the hell did you pay for this?”

“Don’t know. They were a package deal.”

Dean grins over at him. “You look insane. You know that, right?”

“Charlie asked me which Robin. I had no idea, so I told her she should pick. I guess now we know she has a sense of humor.” Sam snaps the elastic around the thigh of his green briefs - because that’s what they are - briefs. He scratches his calf in one of the many places the flesh colored tights itch his leg hairs.

“So, what have you told these people?”

“Nothing. And they won't ask.” Sam checks through the rearview mirror while he backs into a parking space in the company garage. “You want to be brothers?”

Dean shrugs.

“That’s fine. If that’s what you want,” Sam says, amazed his voice doesn’t break and that he doesn’t crack into a million jagged pieces.

Dean scratches his chin and inhales loudly.

“Is that what you want?”

Dean knocks his gloves against the suit, making a deep, hollow sound. “Let’s just do this.”

As they walk, Sam reaches for the small of his back. Dean rolls back his shoulders and steps aside. “Look…”

Sam huffs and holds his hands up, like an apprehended criminal. “I’m sorry.”

Dean could have very easily backed out altogether, and Sam is just glad to have him here. He keeps reminding himself of that and forgetting that he promised not to touch.

A few women are dancing to The Monster Mash. Mrs. Mosely, who is dressed like a jar of creamy Jif peanut butter, waves her hand, and two-steps right over to them. “Hey, Sam. Hello, Sam’s date.”

Dean looks like he’s swallowed a whole, living frog. “I’m … not his date.”

She lets out a high-pitched laugh and rests a hand on Dean’s arm. “For a second, I thought you were going to say, ‘I’m Batman.’”

Dean chuckles but remains more stilted than Sam has ever seen him.

“Well, we’re glad you finally brought Sam out. He never comes to these things. I'd assumed he just didn't like us.”

Richard Roman from HR sidles up alongside Mrs. Mosely with his hand on her shoulder. “I always figured the job was just a cover. Proven correct, although I would not have guessed he was Robin.”

The man has the smile of a rat, but the way he laughs with Mrs. Mosely makes him a little more human. The handwritten sign safety-pinned to Richard’s shirt reads: ‘Welch’s Jelly.’

“I always thought you were a spy. Hi, I’m Amelia. Wicked costume.”

Dean shakes her hand. Sam can’t tell what she’s supposed to be, but he does notice Dean’s eyes flick over her slight form. Maybe he’s just checking out her costume, too. Sam purses his lips into a tight line as Mrs. Mosely goes on with introductions. “This is Sam's date. What was your name, honey?”

Dean’s mouth falls open, and she grins.

A man who Sam knows is named Adrian, but has never actually spoken to, joins the small crowd gathering around them. “Winchester showed up and brought a date. I didn't know you were gay, man. Hey, Carmen, look who's here.”

“Winchester?”

Sam has never spoken with most of them.

Mrs. Mosely exchanges a knowing glance with Richard who asks, “So, is this a first date or, like, a third date? It's kind of hard to read?"

“It’s not a date.”

Sam isn’t sure what comes over him, but he wraps an arm around Dean’s waist and plants a kiss on his ear, or where Dean’s ear must be, below the bat ears. Even with the mask on, the blush creeping prettily over his skin is plain as day. Dean elbows him in the ribs, and Sam lets him go.

But the damage is done.

Mrs. Mosely and Carmen coo in unison. Richard Roman clears his throat and is suddenly riveted by his drink. Amelia lowers her eyes and mumbles something about the restroom. Adrian raises his cup to  toast them.

“I think I need some of that.” Dean makes a beeline for the snack table.

“Don’t worry. He’ll loosen up,” Mrs. Mosely says.

“Why'd you keep … You know, saying that?” Sam asks.

“Because I have the feeling you two are far more connected than either of you wants to admit to himself.”

Sam nods. Dean downs a cup of punch and goes back for another.

“Sure is cute.”

Sam grins and leans down to whisper, “Wait’ll you see him without the mask.”

“I just bet.” She swats his arm. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Sam Winchester.”

 

***

 

Parked outside of his parents’ house with The Marriage of Figaro thrumming in the background, Sam turns in his seat to ask, “What'd you think of that?”

“They seem like nice people.”

“Yeah, they do.” When was the last time Sam had friends?

Not that his co-workers qualify as that, but it’s a welcome change to have fun and not worry about anything. Now, if Dean would only let Sam kiss him, all would be right with the world again.

The kid knocks against his chest, knuckles rapping against his suit. “Thanks for ... this was awesome.”

“Of course. I thought you would like it.”

Dean nods. “If you want to wait, I’ll change out of it --”

“It's for you.” Sam runs his fingers over the point of the spiky bat ears. “There’s nothing I can do with it. You probably won’t even fit it next year. It was just a one-time thing.”

Dean takes off the mask and frowns down at it. His hair is all matted down and Sam ruffles his hands over it.

“Sam, stop,” he demands, still staring at the mask. “I can't pay you back.”

“Dean.”

“I mean, you spent all this money and --”

“Dean.”

“There's not really anything I can do to --"

Sam lays a hand on his. Dean looks at it but doesn’t move. That’s progress. “Dean. If they’re… if our parents are telling the truth, we're half brothers. But why would my father not just tell my mom and get it off his chest? Why keep it this huge secret? Because it’s bullshit. It’s his way to … He’s just trying to keep us apart.” There’s no subtle way to say this, so Sam just lets it out. “But even if you were my brother, I don't really care. I want you. More than anything.”

Dean still doesn’t move as he huffs out a humorless laugh. “Starting to believe in Murphy’s Law.”

Does the joke mean Dean is coming around? It’s hard to tell when he won’t meet Sam’s eyes.

“You know what's funny? When I was a little kid, I always wished I had a brother. ‘More than anything.’ Figured, it'd be cool to have someone to help me keep Jody out of trouble. She’s a fucking trouble magnet, you know? It seems to me that having a brother would be even better than ... whatever we were doing … because brothers is bone-deep. Forever. Right?”

“Yeah.”

“But we're not really brothers, are we?”

“I'll be anything you need.”

Dean’s hand slips out from under Sam’s. "I don't need anything. I didn't have a father, a brother, whatever we were, I didn't have any of that before we got here and I was fine.”

“I wasn’t.” Sam’s throat closes, his heart twists. His whole body aches with the effort of trying to make Dean hear him. “I wasn't fine before you. And whatever we are ... is everything to me. Lovers? Brothers? We could be forever, Dean.”

“Good night, Sam.” He gets out of the car like he hasn’t heard a word.

Sam startles at the sharp crac of the closing door. He sits still for a moment, trying to collect himself. His face stings. He takes a deep breath, does not want to cry. Through the passenger’s window, he watches Dean near the front door. Then, he dives out of the car, leaving the driver’s door hanging open. “Hey!”

Brisk steps carry him up the walkway.

Dean turns around and sucks his teeth. “What?”

Sam’s hand brushes over his cheek. “I think we should …”

_Sam thinks they should do what makes them happy, because that’s too rare and too precious and he's never had it before, and he's too selfish to give it up._

None of those words come out. They well up in Sam's throat and threaten to choke the life out of him.

“Stop being so fucking dramatic, man. There’s other dicks out there.”

“Don’t do this.”

Dean presses the bat mask in Sam's outstretched hands and leaves him alone on the porch in the dark.

 

***

 

Dean runs up the stairs, pins his back to the bedroom door and slides to the floor. The bat suit is restrictive as fuck in this position. That has to be why it’s so hard to breathe.

He nearly pops his shoulder out of the socket, contorting to unzip and get himself out of the damn thing. When he’s finally free, he leaves it on the floor and trudges, naked, to the bed. He doesn’t answer Sam's call. He just sits there, staring at the wall.

There’s obviously no God, so this whole thing must be a cosmic joke. The more he wants Sam, the more clear it becomes that Dean can’t have him. There comes a point, no matter how much you want something when you throw in the towel, if only to preserve what’s left of your fucking sanity. He should have listened to his mother and not let himself get all caught up in this emotional bullshit.

Jody.

Dean still hasn’t heard a peep from her. The only time he’d gone more than 24 hours without talking to her was when he was locked up and when he was with Sam. Once she figures out where to stop next, she’ll burn the old phone, switch numbers and Dean won’t be able to get in touch with her. He won’t be able to check in and hear that she’s all right.

She’s not the type to look back after she’s made a decision, never went crawling back to any of her string of bad choice boyfriends. Just on to the next one. She won’t be calling to check up on Dean. It’s not her style. Jody raised him to be the same way. He should be over her and over Sam, but he’s not.

If he hears her voice, maybe he can get to sleep.

When the nonstop buzzing from Sam’s calls ends, Dean picks up the phone.

Jody answers on the second ring with the wind whistling behind her. “You okay?”

“No.”

 

***

 

Sam hangs his cape on a hook by the front door. The apartment is dark except for a weak light coming from the living room. Squinting, Sam follows it. Castiel sits with his legs folded on the sofa with his head slumped forward, almost certainly drunk.

“If you’re tired, go to--” Sam shuts his eyes for just a moment to let the cold rush over him.

He kneels before Castiel and pries the box cutter from his hand. It’s covered in blood, as are his fingers, his jaw, and his bare chest. In the glow of the computer screen, the wound is plain to see. Sam shakes his head, eyes crinkling in pain he can’t feel, but feels he’s caused. “Jesus, Cas.”

An overturned and empty bottle of Smirnoff tells at least part of the evening’s tale.

Sam places a finger under Castiel’s chin so he can lift his face and examine the inch-long gash he’s carved into the left corner of his mouth.

“Castiel?”

Cas’ eyes flutter open, he attempts to smile and whimpers. Once again, he has hacked into Sam’s laptop. The calendar is a small window in the upper left corner of the screen. Today’s date and appointments are superimposed over a photo on the company Facebook page. Batman and a much-taller Robin smile awkwardly, sandwiched between a grinning jar of peanut butter and whatever Amelia was supposed to be.

“We need to go to the emergency room.”

“No.” Castiel’s eyes remain closed as he sucks in a gasp of air. Talking must be agony.

“Castiel,” Sam repeats, unsure of what else to say.

Laughter decays into sobs. Castiel’s face contorts in a grotesque blend of levity and pain, tugging at the laceration and causing it to bleed a fresh stream down his chin. “Just let me die.”

“Would you stop it?” Still kneeling, Sam searches for anything to stop the bleeding. Finding only sofa pillows, he throws up his hands and sprints into the kitchen for a clean dish rag.

On his knees before him again, Sam squeezes Castiel’s thigh. “You're not going to die. It's just ... It's going to ruin your smile. You have a beautiful smile, Castiel, and it would be a shame.”

Cas’ eyes flicker open, tears flowing down his twisted face.

“Can I, please, take you to the ER?” Sam says. "Let me take care of you."

Castiel nods and drops his head. While Sam helps him to his feet, he murmurs out of the side of his disfigured mouth, “In what universe would Robin be half a foot taller than Batman, you couple of morons?”

 


	26. Chapter 26

Jody steals another fry before she drags the red basket of fries across the table in front of her. Dean blinks. She’s waiting for him to make a big stink about her messing with his food, but he doesn’t have it in him.   
  
“You know, you begged me to come back for you.”   
  
He nods.   
  
“Let me guess. Now you want to go back?”   
  
“No.” It’s a flat out lie. They both know it. At the same time, he never wants to hear the word Kansas again. “I just don’t understand why all this time--”   
  
“I didn’t know where to look, Dean. Okay?” She closes her eyes and scratches her eyebrow. “We didn’t exactly … play Truth or Dare. All I had to go on was an ex-marine named John. The fact that we found him the way we did is --”   
  
Dean shoves the plate of half-eaten burger at her. “Just forget it, okay? Let’s drop it.”   
  
“Fine. Dropped. Now, you stop acting like a zombie.”   
  
“Fine.” He flashes a huge, fake smile that fades as quickly as he put it on.   
  
He has a single sip of flavorless soda, before he curls up his nose and pushes that away, too. His guts are rotten, and sugar just reminds him of Sam.  
  
  
***  
  
  
As soon as Sam reaches the foot of the marble staircase, he squints up at the imposing building, spins on his heels, and tries to walk away. Castiel blocks his path with a hand in the center of his chest. “No. You said if I made the date...”   
  
“Cas. I can’t. I need him here.”   
  
Dean wasn’t supposed to go. He was supposed to be there the next day, so they could talk through whatever was troubling him. Sam was giving him a night, some space and the next morning, Dean was gone.  
  
Sam’s parents hadn’t even realized that he’d left until Sam stopped by for breakfast. All of the clothes and gifts were lined up neatly on the bed: the suit, the coat, all of it. Jo and his parents didn't know the significance of that. Only Sam. And it was as loud a GoodBye as he'd ever heard.  
  
“He's gone, Sam. You need to get on with your life.” Castiel tugs on his sleeve. “You swore. You owe this to me. You said yourself, you owe me.”   
  
Sam allows himself to be led through the metal detectors, as if to slaughter. Cas doesn’t have to look the room number up on the board. He already knows the correct floor and hits the button in the elevator. Clinging to Sam’s arm, he straightens Sam's tie and stands on his tiptoes to kiss his cheek. The other people in the elevator actively do not stare at them, except for a little boy who says, “Mommy…”   
  
The child’s mother shushes him and squeezes his hand until he yelps in pain. Sam looks down and meets the boy's eyes, unsure who has it worse, the kid or himself.   
  
Mrs. Moseley stands when they enter the room. She's brought a bouquet of red carnations and an appropriately sad look on her face. The expression changes from pity to confusion when she sees Sam’s hand in Castiel’s.  
  
Sam purses his lips and keeps them shut. Her feedback and approval are unnecessary anyway. All he needs is her signature.   
  
On the very short list of people of whom he could have made this request, Mrs. Mosely had been the one to come through for him.  
  
His father was out, for obvious reasons.  
  
His mother hasn’t spoken to him in a month.  
While Sam was in his old bedroom having a last hurrah with Dean, his mother had been booking a plane to Orlando. She and Jo had visited Ruby and Luna the very next day. Even Sam's father has met the little girl.   
  
Sam hasn’t gone down there because he can’t. That’s what his mother doesn’t or won’t accept, the reason she’s so upset with him. Sam cannot allow his daughter’s first impression to be that her father is going through a personal crisis. He will go to meet her, as soon as he gets himself together. When will that be? He has no idea. Not today.   
  
He’d even asked Charlie.  
  
She'd been ecstatic at first, assuming that he was marrying Dean. Sam had been struck speechless long enough for her to start verbally making plans for their suits. Eventually, he found his voice and derailed that train of thought. Despite her obvious disappointment, she agreed to come to dinner and meet the groom to be.  
  
Charlie and Val had been at the apartment a little under fifteen minutes before she stood up, looked Sam in the eye and said, “Marriage is not to be taken lightly. And certainly not by our people.” Then she left.  
  
Mrs. Mosely had not been on the original list at all, but being out of options, Sam had asked and she’d agreed. Granted, he'd embellished a bit (a lot) and told her that his family was unaccepting of the marriage. It was, technically, true and better than Sam’s original idea, which had been to tell her they were all dead.  
  
Castiel releases Sam’s arm to accept the flowers with both hands, burying his simpering face in the scentless blossoms.   
  
Richard Roman sits in the waiting area with one leg crossed over the other. He nods at Sam.   
  
Mrs. Mosely says, “You know Dick.”   
  
Cas snickers like a 6th grader. The staples have come out of his cheek, and the wound has healed as inconspicuously as could be hoped for. It's barely visible, except for when he grins like this. “I don’t know dick," he says.   
  
That’s as far into the rabbit hole as they descend before the clerk calls their names, “Samuel Winchester, Castile Novak,” pronouncing Cas’ name like the Spanish province.   
  
No one corrects him. Castiel bounces on his toes and grins like a child with a shiny new toy. He hands Mrs. Mosely the flowers when it’s time for him to sign.   
  
The day Sam met Dean, the kid had come bounding out of his parents’ house with his right hand extended and this cocky smile on his impossible face. His eyes had reflected the sunlight like gems. It was alarming, really, how beautiful he was. Sam had taken one look at him and known; this is the kind of boy who wrecks people.  
  
The judge and Cas stare at him. Mrs. Mosely and Richard Roman, too. They’re all waiting for something, but he’s not sure what. The clerk taps on the page where the X marks the spot. Sam blinks down at the pen in his hand.   
  
“Mr. Winchester? Right here, please.”  
  
Castiel is not breathing at all. There was no one he could ask. His list of potential witnesses had no entries at all. Castiel is alone without Sam. In the end, that is the reason he signs.  
  
  
***

Every time he gets on a computer, Dean checks Castiel’s page. He checks Mary Winchester’s, too and Jo’s. He’s not FB Friends with them or anything. In fact, the only person he’s friended is his mother, which is pathetic when all the other kids are on Instagram and Snapchat, but it's too easy to be careless with that crap. Plus, there's no point when you don't have any actual friends.   
  
Is it embarrassing to be trolling for pictures of Sam? Yes, it is. But nobody knows that's what he's doing except for Dean, so, it’s only internal humiliation.   
  
When he doesn’t find any new ones, he returns to the one on his own page. He’d taken it without Sam’s permission. Just a heat of the moment thing, too exquisite not to capture. Dean had put it on his page right before his mother made him burn the phone. And Sam’ll never know. He doesn’t even have a profile.   
  
Dean spends the remaining half hour on the library computer staring at Sam’s sleeping face.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Sam is sprawled out with a looseness borrowed from his memory of Dean.   
  
Castiel shakes the two bottles as if he's playing maracas in a Mariachi band. "Orange or yellow, my dear?” He pours one of each into his palm and sets the containers on the bedside table.  
  
He holds his pills to Sam’s mouth. Sam swats the hand away, and they scatter to the floor. He scratches his itchy, unshaven face. There’s no relief, though, so he helps himself to another fistful of Doritos, ignoring the crumbs that fall into his beard. He wipes the orange residue from his fingers onto his t-shirt and uses the remote to turn up the TV.  
  
Castiel picks up Sam’s soda and scrutinizes it like he’s never seen an aluminum can. His eyes flicker over the candy wrappers on the bed. "Sammy."  
  
Sam turns the volume up so loud that the onscreen sirens and gunfire rattle his eardrums. He has no idea what he’s watching, but anything is better than listening to Castiel’s voice.  
  
Sam hasn’t even gotten around to calling in to quit work. He’s only left the bed to go to the bathroom and get more of this crap to abuse himself with. It’s not a problem. He has enough money saved to survive for years doing nothing other than what he’s doing right now. After that, he can live on the street.   
  
  
***  
  
  
Dean Jones steps through the double doors and takes a deep breath. It’s too late in the season to join the team. Still, he has survived his first two weeks at Roosevelt High, complete with a Friday afternoon detention. Even the sharp stink of cigarette smoke can’t ruin the crisp autumn air.  
  
The girl has dark, shoulder-length hair and a form-fitting jean skirt. She’s leaned against the wall, smoking like she thinks it makes her hotter. Dean nods more out of habit than intention. The corner of her brick red lip curls up in invitation. He has nowhere to be, so he turns up the collar on his too-thin jacket and swaggers over, real slow.   
  
Her honey-brown eyes sweep over his body with every step he takes toward her. The rush he gets when someone wants him is not like fight adrenaline or a game rush, but it’s powerful. Makes him feel invincible. Alive. Real. And talking to some random girl is a welcome distraction from thinking about Sam every waking minute of every goddamn day.   
  
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”   
  
She smiles and looks down at the grass as if there’s any chance that she won’t give him her name and anything else he wants. “Lisa.”  
  
“Hello, Lisa.”  
  
She snickers and takes out her pack of cigarettes. “You smoke?”   
  
He considers the options for about two seconds before he holds out his hand and says, “Sure.”

 

***

 

Sam is clean-shaven, properly dressed, and dutifully scooping spoonfuls of unsweetened oatmeal into his mouth. The body is a machine. A machine requires proper fuel.   
  
After two weeks of binging on junk food and worse television, Sam has experienced everything from flu-like symptoms to astral projection. Through this, he has reached the conclusion that he has to get himself together. He'd arrived at said conclusion after waking in a cold sweat to discover a vigorous GummiBears orgy taking place on his mattress. Sam vomited on them, and they dissolved like tiny, multicolored wicked witches of the west.  
  
In that same moment, he dragged himself to the bathroom, regurgitated more of the poison from his system and took an hour-long shower.  
  
He doesn’t feel any better today than he did yesterday or the day before, but he is resolved to function, regardless.   
  
Castiel enters the kitchen wearing his Chinese robe. He tilts his head, almost sheepishly. “I have another meeting today.”   
  
Sam nods.  
  
Castiel helps himself to a spoonful of Sam’s breakfast. “They say we can bring someone, if…”  
  
“I can’t.”  
  
Sam’s sanity is tenuous at best. The last thing he needs is to walk into a den of self-proclaimed lunatics.  
  
Back behind his desk, Sam fires up his computer and sees he's received a link from Mrs. Mosely. The dirty-faced girl on the charity's website holds out a candle. Sam clicks the button to complete his transaction.   
  
All right, God. If you’re out there. I do this; you bring him back to me.   
Please.   
Amen.   
  
***  
  
  
When there’s too much time and quiet like this, Dean lays in his cot and thinks of Jo and how she used to wait for him beside his locker. And Mrs. Winchester teaching him how to slice onions without crying all over them. All the stupid lectures Coach Winchester gave him personally, not just the team. He thinks of Coach Winchester as his coach, not as his father. Dean doesn't go anywhere near that thought, except when he can't help it. That’s when he finds something to do with his hands, legal or otherwise.  
  
Mildred’s tea. Garth’s Cokes. Ash better be leaving him the hell alone. Dean wonders how the team is doing.  
  
Mostly, though, he lays with an arm over his eyes, and his face pinched tight, thinking about Sam’s goofy grin during that stupid hot air balloon ride and his hair whipping around his face when the afternoon was warm enough to ride with the windows open. The memory of that fucking kiss on that fucking bridge makes his whole body buzz. Sam rooting around between his legs to get rid of that tick. And Sam, after the fight, looking at Dean like he was made out of spun glass and saying that... Saying what he had said. And how whenever Dean would glance over in the car, Sam would have this placid smile on his face like nothing could ever get to them or get between them, as long as they just kept rolling.   
  
The worst of it is when Dean wonders how it would have been if they had never come back. If they'd just kept driving through Missouri, headed east, south, north or gone all the way west. Anywhere but back to Castiel and Jody and Jo and the coach and everything that went haywire.  
  
What would Mildred say? ‘Yeah. It sucks. Now, suck it up.’  
  
Dean chuckles through the hurt. He heaves his ass off the cot with a heavy groan and makes his way into the common room. At least there’s no school.  
  
He lounges on the couch between toothless Aggie and Ethel who always smells like pee. They make the best commentary about the soaps, though, and they love him to death. Right now, he has his feet up on the rickety coffee table and eats stale chocolate courtesy of Aggie’s linty pocket.   
  
Somebody behind the sofa claps his shoulder. “Come on. We need your help with this.”   
  
“Can’t it wait?” Without turning around, he knows it’s Rod, who runs the kitchen and is one of those sweater-wearing Christians Dean loves to hate for all their do-goodery.  
  
“Not really. Come on.” He pats Dean’s back again.   
  
“Pardon me, ladies.”   
  
The second he steps out into the blistering wind, Dean wishes he hadn’t left every single gift he got from Sam in the Winchester’s house. He could put that winter coat to good use right about now.  
  
He spends the rest of the afternoon lugging 20 lbs. frozen turkeys into the kitchen, thanks to some magnanimous asshole who has totally ruined Days of our Lives and Dean’s entire snow day.

 

***

 

  
FROM: IGetFabulous@CadburyClothier.com  
  
TO: S.Winchester@LandauFinancial.biz  
  
Hey Sam,  
  
Took forever, I know. Finally got them up.  
  
Thanks again!!  
  
You two are crazy hawwwt. We should totally do an XXXmas shoot. (JK)  
  
Or at very least, spring. Okay?  
  
Say yes. Dean, make him say yes.   
  
Here’s a link to the whole batch: dropbox.com/share/folders/1463  
  
PS: Did you take any of our beautiful boy in the batsuit?  
  
\- Charlie  
  
Sam scrolls through all of the photos, his breath shallow, lashes failing to beat back tears. He pauses the slideshow on one where he’s leaning down, kissing Dean’s cheek. The kid has this mischievous, devil-may-care smirk on his face.   
  
Someone approaches from behind, and Sam shuts the browser in a rush, as if he's looking at something unsuitable for work.   
  
  
***  
  
Lisa’s hair is almost right. It’s more of a solid brown with none of the gold and bronze that shone in Sam's, especially out under the sun. But in dim or artificial light, the color is almost the same.  
Everything else about her is a writhing, whimpering mistake.   
  
Her sighs are pitched too high. Her perfume is too sweet, lips taste like watermelons and Lucky Strikes instead of that bitter tea crap that was always on Sam’s tongue. Her tits and just her whole body is too soft. That’s usually nice, but now, it just makes him want to scream.   
  
The girl on the other side of Lisa in the back seat sulks. “Would you two get a fucking room?”   
  
Dean closes his eyes and tries to get lost in Lisa’s vice-tight grip. He arches his hips up into the punishment of her touch, squeezes his eyes shut, breathes in a sharp breath through his nose, chokes back Sam’s name and dribbles come over her too-small palm.  
  
***  
  
Cas stands with one hand on each side of the door frame. He’s wearing a white lace teddy, elbow-length gloves, thigh-high stockings, garter straps and white heels, waiting for Sam’s reaction.   
  
“Did I buy that?”   
  
Cas nods. “Wedding present.”   
  
“You're welcome.”  
  
“You like it?”   
  
Sam looks again. The outfit suits Castiel. It fits well. He seems comfortable in it. It’s obviously of a high-quality material, not made in China or bought off the rack and definitely fashioned by hand, with care. It could be one of Charlie’s masterpieces. Sam nods. "You look nice.”  
  
"Nice." Cas repeats, as if he’s collecting for a word bank.  
  
He stands at the foot of the bed. Sam has always appreciated fine art, so he watches Castiel dance.   
  
He's fortunate to have a private show provided by such a gifted performer. The movements appear to be eastern inspired, perhaps a blend of Indian classical and belly dance. It's amazing the way Cas can twist his wrists and curl his spine and sway his hips. He raises both arms above his head. Such a supple man. He must have been something in his Broadway days. Sam hasn't been to a show in ages. Always did enjoy a musical.  
  
Cas crawls onto the bed. He cups his hand over Sam's indifferent crotch. Undeterred, he continues to stalk up Sam’s supine body until he can kiss him long and languid. Sam doesn't push him away or return the kiss. He accepts the affection as if it were part of the dance recital.   
  
Castiel straddles his hips, plants himself over Sam’s cock. He rubs a gloved hand down his face and sighs. "Were you ever actually attracted to me?"  
  
“Absolutely.”   
  
“And now?”   
  
“You already know.”   
  
“You're a one at a time kind of boy.” Castiel drops himself onto the bed beside Sam. “You know what? I’m not in any fucking mood for it anyway. These stupid pills.”   
  
Sam keeps his relief to himself. “But you feel better, otherwise, right?”   
  
"I don't feel anything."   
  
Sam searches Cas’ face. "Is that good?"   
  
"Sometimes. Like right now? Yeah, probably. I think I miss you or I know I should. But I..." He shrugs.   
  
That sounds so good, Sam is tempted to ask what Cas is taking. Maybe he could get a prescription for himself.  
  
"Tell me something, Sam. What is it about him, besides the obvious?"  
  
‘The obvious’ -- Sam assumes are Dean’s looks or his youth, but Cas got to know him. How could anyone not adore Dean's brashness and his sense of humor, his confidence or his kindness, his endearing fear of vulnerability or his earnestness, or his keen appetites for food and sex and entertainment? Dean was imperfect, and perfect. Goodness knows they'd had odds stacked against them, but there was something undeniable. They should have been able to weather anything, and yet, Dean is God knows where and Sam isn’t even sure which straw had broken the camel’s back.   
  
"Well?" Cas asks.  
  
"Everything."  
  
Castiel doesn’t rage or punch or scream, like he would have done before the prescriptions. He sighs. "What are you watching?"   
  
Sam shrugs at the screen. They watch in silence for a while until Sam hands over the remote. He closes his eyes and tries to sleep. At the very least, he’s not alone.  
  
***

 

Lisa squeals, claps, jumps up and down like she just struck the lotto. She pulls on Dean, rubbing her tits on his arm and trying to get him to smile. He chuckles, but his pubes are all stuck together in coagulated cum. The only thing that would make him almost happy would be to go home and take a shower.   
  
But the shelter closes at 10:00 PM, so he’s stuck with these guys. Lisa has promised him a place to crash tonight, which is cool. It’ll be good to sleep in an actual bed. Just about anything will be better than the pissed-in children’s cot, surrounded by sniffling, sneezing little kids. Not that Dean minds the kids. Some of them are actually pretty cute, which is why he hates to see them growing up like he did.  
  
But in exchange for the luxury of a real bed and the break from his real life, he has to spend the rest of the night with this merry band of hooligans.   
  
“Shhh,” Dean whispers like an old man.  
  
Apparently, he’s outgrown his years of junior delinquency, because he finds no pleasure in breaking into this garage, trashing some stranger’s baby blue Jaguar. It’s a beautiful car, and an awful waste. Better to just steal it. “Do you even know this guy?”  
  
Lisa’s brother, Carl, steps back from his handiwork. The hood glistens with egg. One of the other guys spray paints the passenger’s door. The rattle and hiss of the can grate on Dean’s nerves.   
  
“It’s Peterson. Fucking douche failed me last quarter.”   
  
Well, that settles it, then. Since Carl certainly seems the type to have studied, prepared and participated in class, Peterson failing him can only be a result of the man being a douche.   
  
Dean keeps looking over his shoulder at the open garage door. Five-O could show up any minute. He is not trying to get locked up for this stupidity. He sighs and skulks around to the other side of the car to check out what work of art is taking so long. This guy has drawn an oozing dick that takes up most of the side panel. Dean rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Are we done here?”   
  
Lisa tucks herself under his arm. Carl kicks the car as they leave the garage. Dean glances back over his shoulder and catches sight of the rainbow sticker on the rear bumper.  
  
***  
  
Sam’s knee bounces like he’s had ten cups of coffee instead of just the one. That was a bad idea. It had been a way to help him pass the interminable hour he’s been waiting since he finished filling out the paperwork.  
  
Detective Ramsey reminds him of Adrian from work, with his dark skin and jocular demeanor. It fails to put Sam at ease. The man still isn’t back, and Sam’s patience is rapidly dwindling. He hops out of his chair again and stares at the faces on the Most Wanted posters. Then, he slumps back down in the chair and runs his hand over his face.  
  
“Mr. Winchester.”   
  
He leaps to his feet the moment the detective enters the office.   
  
“I just spoke with your father. According to him, the boy is not missing. He’s with his mother, who has full custody.”  
  
“No, that’s not…” Sam’s eyes search the room as if he’ll find anything to explain the urgency of his situation.   
  
“I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do.”   
  
Sam grips the back of the chair he had been sitting in. It rattles in his hands, making a loud racket against the tile floor. “She isn’t fit. She’s…”   
  
“Sir. Why don’t you go buy yourself a tree?” The detective’s hand slides over to the holster on his hip.   
  
Sam has no control over the forward tilt of his head as if he was some wild creature with horns. He does not intend to lower his voice into a growl. Caffeine is not his friend. “You don’t understand.”  
  
“No, I don’t, but there isn’t anything more I can do for you. As far as we’re concerned, your brother isn’t missing. I’m sorry. Merry Christmas to you.” Ramsey holds the door open.   
  
Sam knocks the chair onto its back and charges the man, even as the detective reaches for his gun. Years of self-defense training kick in, Sam chops his forearm down against the rising wrist, causing the officer to drop his weapon before Sam knocks the man back against a wall.   
  
Just as suddenly, he raises his hands, first in front of his chest and then, clear to the ceiling. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Oh, God.”

 

***

 

  
Lo and behold, Dean has gotten what he was after. Sort of.   
  
On Cas’ FB page, there’s a picture of Sam. With Castiel. They’re both dressed up like somebody just died: Cas in a white suit and Sam in black. Castiel’s smile is huge, and his eyes are closed. Something is different about his face, but Dean can't place it. One thing hasn’t changed: he is clinging to Sam like a leech. Sam looks as strong and stoic as ever. He’s growing a beard. It looks good.  
  
It’s Cas’ profile picture, and his marital status has changed.   
A heatwave flashes through Dean like a lethal dose of radiation.  
  
So, that’s that.  
  
Dean’s is the first response to the picture.   
He types ‘congrats.’   
Then, he picks up his shit and leaves the library.  
  
***  
  
Sam lays on his stomach with his face buried in a smelly government-issue pillow that grates against his cheek. The cot is too short; the toes of his shoes hang off the end. The door to his holding cell beeps open with a loud, metallic click. He doesn’t budge, even as the footsteps approach.   
  
“Should I ask or just assume?”  
  
He bristles at the voice, but doesn’t look up to see, his father’s face. He can smell the alcohol from across the room.   
  
Sam takes a moment to sift through potential answers, props up on his elbows and scrubs his face with both hands. There’s a bass drum pounding behind his right eye. A few deep calming breaths are no help. He whispers, "Do you know where he is?”  
  
“The way you're acting, I wouldn't tell you even if I did,” his father says. “What the hell is wrong with you? Attacked an officer? Are you on drugs or something? You’re lucky I talked this Ramsey guy down. You could be looking at some pretty serious charges.”   
  
Sam sits up and tosses his feet onto the floor. He presses his chin to his chest, hands clasped between his knees. Wishes he was on drugs. Maybe that would help.   
  
“Sam, the thing with you and Dean, it’s all kinds of wrong. Even you've got to see that.”   
  
The logic is sound; there’s no point arguing. “I just want to be sure he's okay. His mother's not... She's not mom, you know.”  
  
“He’s survived this long, hasn’t he?”  
  
“You didn’t see the way they live.” Sam finally looks up and meets his father’s bloodshot eyes.  
  
John W. is about two beers way from being shit-faced. It's not fair. Sam should be able to drink. Maybe he should try it and see what happens. He rolls his lips together and drops his face again.   
  
“It was his choice. There’s nothing you can do about it.”  
  
  
***  
  
  
Dean stamps out his cigarette and walks into the salon. His mother nods at him. “Why aren’t you in school?”  
  
“Don’t fucking feel like it.”  
  
“You skip, and you come here? Little idiot.” She shakes her head and holds out a broom.   
  
He sweeps without protest. The woman behind the counter never even looks up at him.  
  
  
***

 

Castiel drops his laptop on Sam’s desk, on top of his work, right in his face without saying a word. Sam is on the cusp of complaining until he sees what Castiel is showing him. A hand flies to his mouth to contain the excited shriek behind his lips.   
  
“Wait.” Sam’s eyes narrow. “Why are you showing me this?”   
  
For a moment, Castiel’s eyes trail between Sam and the computer. “I want you to find him.”   
  
“You want me to find him?”   
  
“Maybe…” Castiel takes a breath. “If I see you with him again, I’ll wake up.”   
  
Sam takes his hand. "Maybe we need to have the doctor take a look at your prescription."   
  
Cas nods, batting his lashes as if they weigh a ton apiece, and leaves the room.   
  
An hour later, the computer bounces on Sam’s knee. He can't keep still. He’s created his own profile and watches the screen, waiting for D Wayne to accept his friend request.   
  
It has to be Dean, although there aren’t any pictures of him or anything that might indicate where he is. Of course, Dean wouldn’t post any of that. The most recent shot is of a prodigious stack of waffles. On closer examination, Sam is fairly certain that photo was taken in his parents’ house. That was posted 9 weeks ago, which would be before Dean left.   
  
There hasn’t been any activity since then. Still, he has to be checking in regularly. He had seen Cas’ post and responded. That means, eventually, he’ll see Sam’s request.   
  
Sam scrolls through Dean’s photos. There is a lot of food, some blurry ones of driving past things, like a field of cows or a billboard. Scrolling back, he finds a photo of Larry, the mechanical bull, one of Carl, the farmer next to a huge pumpkin, and one of the Mark Twain impersonator.   
  
Sam hadn’t even noticed Dean taking these shots. He certainly doesn’t recognize the one of himself laid out on a pillow with his hair splayed every which way. There’s a soft smile on his face, like he’s dreaming about something delightful. It’s the first photo Sam has ever seen of himself in which he looks genuinely happy. The longer he looks, the closer he comes to finding what Dean had seen in him that first day. Sam huffs and tries to type a comment, but he can’t because they’re not yet friends.   
  
While he’s waiting, Sam posts the photos from Charlie to his page, thrilled by the idea of Dean seeing them. Sam smiles as he uploads every single one of the 103 pictures. The profile pic is an obvious choice.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Dean cringes, crushing the flare that shoots through him at the picture of Sam nuzzling his cheek. One day it's Castiel’s wedding announcement; the next day, it's this. A thousand miles away and they still manage to fuck with his head.   
  
He grits his teeth in cold, hard determination. It only takes one more button to confirm account deletion. Dean clicks it, logs out of the computer, and leaves the library, groaning at all the fake holly and stupid fucking lights.


	27. Chapter 27

Sam’s mother looks down at the broken angel in her hands. Sam and Castiel have righted the tree, but some damage is irreparable. Jo collects the other ornaments from the floor and redecorates the boughs while their father, who knocked it down in the first place, stumbles toward and slumps into his chair.

“Shall we…” Sam’s mother clears her throat. “How about we open presents now?”

She’s hardly looked at Sam, while his sister hasn’t stopped glaring. His father’s hand falls limp from the armrest, but the bottle of Johnnie Walker remains safely tucked between his legs. Castiel raises his eyebrows but makes no commentary, which is its own Christmas miracle.

This is not how Sam remembers Christmas at home. Whatever happened to the living Nativities, The Nutcracker, the roasting chestnuts? Sam’s father used to wear an authentic Santa suit, which is only slightly awkward to think about considering some of the acts Sam has performed as Santa himself.

Sam and Castiel’s Christmas tradition revolved around Sam receiving a costume as foreplay. The first year it was Santa and the Naughty Kid, a scene in which, instead of coal, the iconic imp gets plowed by Father Christmas. The following year, Cas wanted them to play Mr. and Mrs. Claus. Then, they were Rudolf and an elf. Charlie Brown and Linus was actually surprisingly hot.

For the past six years, Christmas without his family had damn near reduced Sam to tears. Now, he’s asking himself whether his idyllic memories have any basis in reality.

“JoAnna.” Sam’s mother hands the incessantly moping teenager a small, rectangular box.

She holds box, immaculately wrapped in purple paper and says, “Castiel.”

Cas covers his heart with his hand and glances at Sam. It’s been decades since Castiel has seen his own mother. He shakes the gift next to his ear with a small smile that wasn’t wrecked by the cut, after all. What’s left of his brilliant grin is a shadow of its former sparkle. Sam does not miss the worst of Castiel, but the best of him is sedated, too.

Sam’s mom frowns at the scar on Cas’ cheek and asks, “What happened here?”

“Oh. Just… an accident.”

She nods and passes an envelope to Castiel, who reads Sam’s name and passes it to him.

“Are you ever going to talk to me again, mom?”

His mother rolls her eyes and picks up the next present. How much easier it would have been to just make a roast and stay at home? He could have been miserable in the comfort of his own place.

Ticket to Orlando. No surprise.

“Ruby looks amazing.”

“She always did.”

“She asks about you.”

Castiel runs a hand down his new black leather vest, watching Sam and his mother like a tennis match. The buttons won’t close around his expanding belly. It’s another side effect of his medication that Sam doesn’t mind, and Castiel can't stand.

“Luna loves the dollhouse. Have you seen the pictures?”

Sam has a drink of his water. Ruby had sent a full series of videos of the little girl opening the presents she’d received from him.

“And she can't wait to meet you.”

“I talk to Ruby, too, mom. I'm going to go, just… I need some time.”

Castiel hands Sam the present they brought for Jo. He deliberated over this for weeks and spent three times as much money on it as anyone else’s gift. Without reaching out to accept, she takes one look at it, stands up and stalks out of the room.

Speechless, Sam huffs out a breathy, humorless laugh as her footsteps recede up the stairs and down the hall until her bedroom door slams.

Sam’s father stirs. His mother rescues the bottle of whiskey and lifts her husband’s hand from where it dangles to rest it on his lap. “She’s been…like this for a while now.”

She wipes her husband’s sweaty brow and plants a kiss there.

"And Dad?"

“Hasn't drunk this way in a long time. I think he was looking forward to …”

 _Having a son again._ Sam doesn't have to say it. They both already know, although she doesn't know the half.

Did his father drink himself unconscious when Sam quit the game? What would his mother do if she learned the truth about Dean? What if the old man sent him away with Jody to keep her from finding out? Sam’s mouth floods sour when he so much as looks at the man.

"One thing is sure; Dean has left a mark on all of us, hasn’t he?” His mother holds up a wrapped gift with Dean’s name on it.

Sam refuses to look at that, too.

After Dean had deleted his Facebook profile, Castiel sat beside Sam on the sofa and rested a cold hand on his arm. “Please, do not rip yourself to shreds over this little breeder.”

Sam's bleary eyes snapped up into Castiel’s sobering sky-blue gaze.

“There are three possible scenarios here, Sammy. Okay? The most obvious is that he was looking for someone to take care of him. You know he had that half-starved orphan thing going? The second and equally likely is that with all his daddy issues, he just needed a good fuck to make up for lost hugs. Then, there’s the fact that some straight boys like to experiment, in which case, lucky you and now, let it go. Take your pick and move on, Sam. Otherwise, you're just a creepy old guy chasing some minor and that's a new level of pathetic, even for you.”

It was cruel, but the more Sam thought of it, the more accurate it felt. All of it. Every word. Why choose an explanation when it all made sense?

Since then, Sam hasn’t spoken his name out loud. He deleted Charlie’s pics from his computer. He has allowed Castiel back into his bed, just for the comfort of having someone near. Thanks to Cas’ medication, sex never even comes up. Sam takes care of himself when he needs to -- usually in the shower, always thinking of Dean, sometimes in tears. He tortures himself with Pablo Neruda and Elgar’s Salut d’Amour, still patiently waiting for the yearning to pass.

It’ll pass. Everything does.

Sam asks, only because he can’t stop himself. “Have you heard from him?”

She shakes her head and places a hand on Sam’s arm. “But I'm sure wherever he is, he's doing just fine.”

 

***

 

Even before Dean’s eyes open, he winces at the sharp ache in the back of his skull. There’s nothing in the room that helps him identify which no star motel he’s in, but the filthy curtains, dusty furniture and tiny TV give it away.

Intending to check the pounding wound on his head, he tries to move his arm. A metal cuff rattles against the corner of the bed. The sound echoes from all four ends where Dean’s wrists and ankles have been shackled so that he’s spread out like a naked starfish.

“The fuck.” The rattling only becomes louder as he uselessly strains every muscle in his body to get free.

That desperate clank of metal on metal merges with the crunch of plastic. The entire bed beneath him is covered with a waterproof sheet.

“What the fuck?” Grunting, he fights against the noisy chains until he’s winded. Then he gives them another firm tug letting the metal bite into his skin.

Plan A was a stupid, shock induced reaction.  
Plan B. These motel walls are paper thin.

“Anybody hear me? Hello? HELP! HELP!!”

The bathroom door opens. Dean shuts up and freezes. His heart kicks up and tries to escape through his mouth.

“Quiet, pumpkin. The neighbors are sleeping.”

Even with the douchey, asymmetrical leather jacket suit and impeccably slicked back coal-black hair, he hadn't expected the British accent. The man Dean has been running from his entire life shakes his square head with a smug smile.

“Hello, Dean. Jones, is it, these days?” He grins like Hannibal Lector and waves carelessly at the air. “You do realize I’m joking, of course. There are no neighbors. I’ve bought up this whole row of rooms. Special rates, what with the holidays and all. You may shout all you like. I rather enjoy it.”

It takes every ounce of willpower in his possession, but Dean manages deep breaths as he searches the man’s eyes, his nose, his mouth, his build -- for traces of himself. The body type might be the same, but it would be difficult to say until a few years from now, when Dean stops growing and starts filling out.

“Like what you see?” The man unzips his jacket and drapes it over the back of a chair. “You are quite the little Romeo, aren’t you? Even at a time like this.” He opens and rolls up the cuffs of his sleeves. “Sadly, I’m not authorized for recreation. Though, I could call in for clearance, if you’d really like.”

The man traces his pointer finger over Dean’s birthmark, the one he shares in common with his mother. “Adorable, really. That she thought this would work.”

“Don’t you fucking touch me.” Dean thrashes his head, being that it's the only part he can properly move.

His captor reaches into a 19th-century doctor’s bags and pulls out a large, black, velvet-covered cylinder. “There are, of course, many ways to entertain ourselves.”

Laying the bundle on the table beside the bed, the man unties the black ribbon and unfurls the package, revealing a neat row of shiny silver tools. Dean recognizes the bone saw from some bad horror movie, but most of them he’s never seen before.

He struggles against the cuffs again.

“I know. Exciting, right? But, I’m afraid I'll have to ask you to remain patient until our guest of honor arrives.” The man pats Dean’s thigh and walks to the foot of the bed where he sits in a chair, crossing one leg over the other.

He checks his watch. “It won’t be long. Unless she’s run, which would be monumentally stupid. But of course, she’s done it before, hasn’t she?”

The man shrugs and lowers his head, as if in prayer. Dean has to crane his neck to see the thick book in his lap. There is a network of black lines drawn all over his own skin. “What the fuck? What is this?”

The man goes on reading as if Dean weren’t even there.

“Hey. Fuckface. I’m talking to you. What the hell ….”

That isn’t any more effective than rattling the chains, shouting, cursing, or spitting. Apparently, the man’s book is more interesting than Dean’s rage.

After a few minutes, he calms himself -- at least on the outside. Fucking Plan C. Straight black lines that divide his body into sections. “Why?”

The man looks up. “Pardon.”

“Why? Why are you doing this?”

“Orders.” He goes back to his book, but only for a moment before he his grey-green eyes return to Dean.

“Are you my father?”

His smile gives way to a chuckle that grows into full-scale laughter. “Forgive me. She really has done a number on you, hasn’t she? Poor lad.” He sighs, as if the topic already bores him. “You may call me Catch.”

"Catch?"

The man spells it, slowly, as if he's speaking to a toddler. He hasn’t answered Dean’s question, though. Just spewed a bunch of cryptic shit.

Ketch stands, rolls his neck to stretch and crosses back to the table where he peels out of an expensive looking watch and into a pair of OJ Simpson-looking leather gloves.

“You’re bored, aren’t you? I understand. Young, and it can be so hard to wait.” Ketch picks up a scalpel and twirls it in his hand with a wink in his eye. “It’s all right. We’ll pass the time together.”

“I am going to kill you. Just so you know.” The words come out sounding twenty times more confident than Dean feels.

“Shh. Don’t strain yourself.” Ketch’s lowers the blade to Dean’s chest. “You’ll want to remain very still.”

Out of pure reflex, Dean sucks in his gut and holds his breath as the cold silver presses to his navel. It trails to his dick, leaving a faint pink line over unbroken skin. In spite of his best efforts to stay cool, Dean’s chest heaves in and out. His face stings as he fights back tears.

“You’re doing very well. Now, don’t move.” Ketch scrapes all the way to the tip of Dean's cock, painting slow stripe after stripe until Dean is battling an erection. “Isn’t that lovely?”

A tear slips from the corner of Dean’s eye. “Kill you.”

Ketch’s lips part and he licks the curling corner of his mouth. “You know, I could make that request,” he says breathily. “Would you like that?”

“Fuck off.”

“Yes. I agree. I’ll just place a call then.” Ketch moves to the bedside table, picks up the phone and asks for fresh towels.

“Remember, keep still. We wouldn’t want any accidents.” He traces the blade over Dean’s lower lip, then the top, leaving cold heat in its wake.

Ketch’s tongue parts his mouth, brow wrinkled in concentration. The slope of his jaw is familiar, like maybe Dean’s seen it in the mirror.

“Housekeeping.”

Dean jumps at the knock on the door and the blade slips, only slightly.

Ketch tuts. “Apologies.” He leans forward and sucks the bead of blood from Dean’s lip.

Then he crosses the room and opens the door for the maid who enters with a bundle of towels folded in her arm.

“Perfect. Thank you.”

The woman’s eyes pop open when she sees Dean. Ketch smiles. “Gorgeous. I know.”

“Help me.” As Dean mouths the words, Ketch holds some sort of silver bowl below her chin and slits her throat with the scalpel.

Dean gasps, stomach churning sour as the maid bleeds out. Her body crumples to the floor and Ketch speaks directly to the bowl of blood.

“Yes, sir. Everything’s perfect, sir… No, of course not. No trouble at all… He’s rather a dear... Still waiting… If I may, sir. I just wanted to request additional permission… Yes, sir. Very much, sir…. That is an excellent idea, sir... Gladly. Thank you again, sir.” He flashes a toothy, reptilian smile and begins to loosen his belt. “Fantastic news, pumpkin. I’m allowed to fuck you now, as well as when she arrives--for her benefit of course. I’d say fortuitous for us all.”

Dean scrambles, causing no more disruption than the clanking of his cuffs and the furious rustle of the plastic beneath his body. It sticks to the sweat on his back, but otherwise, there’s no change in his predicament other than his heart trying to slam its way out of his chest. “Listen…”

A knock at the door interrupts whatever he was going to say to try and buy some time. Ketch’s grin never falters. “Ah. Suppose that means it’s show time. You don’t mind an audience, do you?”

The moment Ketch begins to open the door, before he can even see who is there, Dean yells, “RUN! Get out of here! This guy is fucking crazy!”

Ketch steps out of the way to make space for Jody to enter.

“NO! No no no! You leave her alone.” He fights so hard against the shackles that his wrists and ankles begin to bleed. “I swear to God, you touch her, I will fucking end you!!!”

Ketch chuckles over his shoulder. “So feisty.” He spreads his arms and folds Jody to his chest in a warm, familiar embrace. “Princess Josephine.” He takes her shoulders in his hands and bends down to look directly into her face. “Wonderful to see you, my dear.”

Dean’s mother looks over at him, lips pursed, head tilted, eyebrows gathered in what could be contemplation, disgust or something else entirely. “How’d you find him?”

She’s speaking with a British accent, too, and Dean’s head is about to explode.

Ketch’s shoulders shake with laughter as he pats her cheek. “You were always so precious. Do you think there was a single moment when your father didn’t know precisely where you had him?”

Her eyes narrow and Dean recognizes the anger on her face and in her voice. “Then why… why did you not just bring us back the moment I ran?”

Ketch shrugs. “Entertainment? No one’s ever had the audacity to steal from your father before. You intrigued him. And I must say, your shenanigans have been very interesting to watch these sixteen some odd years. Far better than prime time television. And every now and again, he’d have me say ‘Boo,’ just to keep it funny.”

Jody sinks into a chair, staring at the floor.

“Oh, don’t be sad, princess. He’s not even really angry with you. Chalks it all up to a tantrum. All he wants is for me to break your dolly and bring you home.” He leans forward to whisper loudly, “I’m allowed to fuck it.” He rubs his hands together and licks his lips. “Then I get to play.”

“Don’t.” Her eyes snap up to him. “If you have to … finish him, Arthur, for God’s sake, do it quickly.”

Dean’s heart hasn’t let up pounding in his ears since he came to. Now, though, it comes to a stand-still and ice spreads over his flesh as his mother pronounces his death sentence to this freak.

Ketch shudders visibly when she swears. “Ugh. You have been up here too long. The filth you speak. But no, dear. I’ve got orders.”

He removes his gloves, places them and his belt on the table with all his Dark Side Dentist equipment. Finally, when his back is turned to her, Jody meets Dean’s eyes. She brings a finger to her lips and nods. “None of this is his fault, Arthur.”

“Nor is it mine.” Ketch begins to unbutton his shirt. “You know he can’t just let you get away without some consequence. You have to admit, watching this one suffer seems fair.” He pulls off the shirt and drapes it over his jacket. “I suggested a meat market, since he’s so delectable, and your father took me quite literally.”

Laughing, he taps on a piece of paper out of Dean’s line of sight. Jody takes one look at it, shuts her eyes and shakes her head before she lowers it.

Ketch clears his throat to get her attention. “You’re meant to watch. All of it. Now, what position do you favor? I’m rather partial to canine coupling.” As he steps out of his boxers, his face contorts in pain.

He shudders and turns his eyes to Jody. She’s muttering like a mad woman. It doesn't even sound like a real language she's murmuring, but it’s sure making Ketch uncomfortable. Her, too. They both shake and grimace like their skin is on fire.

“You fool.” Ketch bitch slaps her and she stops. 

“Don’t you touch her!” Dean tenses against his shackles.

Neither of them seems concerned with him.

"Behave.” Ketch stretches a length of black tape over Jody's mouth. “I don’t want to have to explain to your father why I had to hurt you.”

He nods at something on the table. Jody’s eyes follow his and she nods, a tear slipping over the tape.

“Now… “ Ketch begins to stroke himself and returns his attention to Dean. He moves to the end of the bed, greedy eyes traveling the length of Dean’s body. “Relax and enjoy yourself, Josephine. Quite a lot of girls find a bit of boy on boy action rather alluring.”

Ketch removes one of the cuffs from Dean’s ankles. The firm kick to the jaw only knocks his grin back into place. He spits a glob of blood onto Dean’s crotch. “You don’t need to behave, pumpkin. In fact, it’s a more fun if you don’t.”

There’s a flicker of motion in the corner of Dean’s eye. Everything happens so swiftly he can't make sense of it.

Jody snatches some strange triangular prism blade from Ketch’s tools and jabs it up into the soft spot below his jaw. A lightning storm goes off under his skin, crackling, flashing bright. Then a plume of black smoke slips through his lips and flies up through the air vent. Dean thinks of that thing from Lost and immediately vows to watch less television. Ketch falls forward onto his legs. With his one free foot, Dean kicks what’s left of the bastard to the floor.

Jody rips the tape from her mouth; unshackles all but one of Dean’s hands. She watches with a sad look on her face as he unlocks the final cuff himself. “What the hell was that?”

“I don’t have time to explain,” she says, sounding like a proper American again. “I’m sorry for everything. If I can fix it, I will.”

“What the fuck, Jody?”

He’s examining his mangled wrists when another crack of lightning causes him to look up in time to see his mother fall to her knees. The hilt of the blade juts out of her chest. Her skin sizzles and fizzes the same as Ketch’s had done. For a moment, her expression is sorrow and regret. Then her mouth opens wide and black smoke flies from her mouth, following the same path out of the building.

Dean kneels beside her body. His hand hovers over her for a long time before he lowers it to her face and wipes back the hair hiding her wide-open eyes.

 _"Mom?_ " He breathes the word, unable to find his voice.

She’s gone. He knows without needing to touch her. And she’s raised him well enough to not stay at a crime scene, even if it’s not his crime.

There could even be more of whatever Ketch was. Whatever his mother (Josephine?) was. Whatever that makes Dean.

He uses the bed to help him stand. His clothes are nowhere to be found. That piece of paper on the table shows a diagram for butchering a pig. Dean chokes back the vomit that fills his throat. Then he lets it out, all over Ketch’s tools.

He stumbles across the room, picks up the phone in his trembling hand and dials the only number he's ever learned by heart.

 

 


	28. SECOND HALF - Demons & Legends

> NOW: January 1, ONE YEAR LATER <

The foot of the mattress dips under Sam's weight, but Dean doesn’t open his eyes to watch him crawl up the bed. Sated, he sighs and curls his mouth into an expectant grin.

Sam takes his ankle in hand. He has this thing about kissing Dean's sole or sucking his toes. Right now, though, it’s a warm, wet stripe up the center of his foot that rekindles the bonfire in Dean’s chest. His dick twitches with renewed interest, and Dean blinks his eyes open to dimples, devotion, and shameless mischief.

"You can keep sleeping," Sam says.

"Can I? With you licking my feet?"

A touch of that Sam magic and the hotel room is sweet-fresh: lavender, like the old apartment. The blackout curtains are doing their job, and there’s no telling what time it is. Somewhere around dawn, maybe.

He's also relit the candles on the nightstand and turned on that concerto, the one that was playing in the car the first time they met.

The second time.

The first time after the first time they met.

He does it again, licks from heel to the soft flesh beneath toes. His eyes latch onto Dean’s as he takes the big one into his mouth.

"Jesus." It's gross, but it's also crazy hot.

Sam's smile never wavers, even as he nibbles the knobby bone on the inside of Dean's ankle. He kisses there and licks again: slow, moist passes over the calf. His tongue is warm, and then he purses his lips and blows cool air over the dampness. Even though he knows it's coming, it sends a shiver up Dean's spine, every single time.

Sam lifts his leg even further, and that tongue washes behind the knee, reducing his prisoner to a mess of gasps and goosebumps, hips seeking heaven. When Sam has tenderly punished both sides equally, he drags Dean by the ankles to the foot of the bed.

With his thighs brightly spit shined, Sam grabs Dean's dick at the base and licks until he has a tool in his hand that is hard enough to crack diamonds. Still, all of Dean's groaning  and even his weeping slit isn’t enough to make Sam take pity.

"Come on. Sam, please." Dean's fingers twine in silken hair in an attempt to hold him in place.

Sam pushes the hand away and releases Dean's shaft so that it springs up against his stomach with a wet thwap. Dean slaps the mattress and grabs at the satin sheets, shuddering. "God damn it, Sam."

"Patience, grasshopper."

Dean can’t see him, but the smile is audible in his voice.

Evil.

That torturous tongue dips into his navel, slip-slides along his hip bone. Dean sits up on his elbows to watch Sam lick between the grooves that define his abs. Pearl-white teeth play at sinking into every rib before Sam latches on to his right nipple.

A low moan forces itself between Dean's parted lips. His body arches off the mattress, allowing space for Sam to wrap his arm under the small of his back, encircling and drawing him closer. The thigh between Dean's legs offers some pressure, but not enough. "Sam."

"Shh."

Meticulous to a fault, he raises Dean's arm to lap his pit. 

“You filthy --”

“Show off for me.” Sam taps Dean’s arm, encouraging him to flex so that he can sink his teeth into bicep before he kisses away the sting. “Such a beautiful boy.”

There's a flame in his core again as Sam hums and tastes his way across collarbone. This entire feline cleansing has been a languid study in patience, but Sam seems to lose track of time at Dean’s neck, suckling, and slurping, licking and nipping, nuzzling and sucking some more. Dean groans, tilts back his head, offering himself even as he clutches the back of Sam's head. His legs curl around Sam’s body. "What are you trying to do to me?"

Just when Dean is convinced he’s going to explode from the weight and the sweetness of the mouth on his throat, Sam pushes up. He hovers, smiling while his hand burrows beneath the pillow, eyes shining with adoration.

It always makes Dean's skin crawl when Sam looks at him like this. He doesn't deserve it. He wouldn't know how to begin earning it.

Sam touches the tips of their noses together, licks the seam of Dean's mouth. In turn, Dean presses his tongue past lick-swollen lips. Sam leans back enough to put space between them although his chest still holds Dean in place. "Don't try to change the subject."

"I just want to fuck you silly right now. Is that not the subject?"

"We'll get to that."

Dean's eyes slip shut: hotel bed a cloud below him, Sam angelic above.

Strong fingers massage his scalp as Sam whispers, "I think you should marry me,"

Dean grins. "Do you now?"

Sam has been talking about getting married pretty much for the entire time Dean has known him.

He also talks about tying Dean to the bed and not letting him leave again, ever. If Sam is sleepy enough, he talks about building a bungalow on the moon and setting up a teepee at the bottom of the ocean. He says they should adopt a child from every continent, like Josephine Baker and raise them all in a treehouse. When he's comfortable, Sam yacks. And Dean listens, with a small smile for this huge man spinning fairy tales like a little kid.

This, however, is the first time Sam has placed a black velvet box in the center of Dean’s chest.

Nearly weightless, it sears through skin, muscle, and bone. This tiny thing stops his heart. His body flashes warm and then cold, and both at once.

"You want to say something?" Sam smiles down, brows raised.

Dean measures his movements. He tries to not let it seem like he's running away. But he can't breathe, and the walls are rushing toward the bed.

He pushes Sam, but that ox keeps on straddling his hips, picks up the box and holds it in his open palm.

“Dean Miller. The minute after you turn 18, I want to marry you. I’m not kidding. Your birthday is on a Tuesday this year; I want to be in front of the judge at 8 AM on Wednesday. I don’t care where we go or what else we do. I just never want to be apart from you again, as long as I live. Would you do me the honor of-- ”

Dean scoffs, shoves him aside and scoots to the edge of the bed with his back to Sam and that infernal box. The blood surges to his head too fast as he rises to his feet, and he staggers for a moment.

"Gotta piss," he calls over his shoulder and flees.

He does actually take a leak. Then, he stares at himself in the mirror.

When he looks into his own eyes, he doesn’t see a married man. He doesn’t see a high school senior or a former QB who had offers lined up. The lady's man is nowhere in sight. The man's man is long gone, too. All that shit has fallen away, and the only thing that remains is Sam.

No one knows like Sam does that Dean is full of shit to the point of brimming over. What Sam doesn't know is that Dean is scared shitless, all the fucking time. Of some truly frightening, otherworldly crap, but also of losing himself. Of Sam and this Tupelo honey and warm cream love Dean will never deserve.

When Dean looks at his reflection, it's into the swamp-green eyes of a coward.


	29. THEN

JANUARY 3

80 miles northwest of Billings, Montana lies a sleepy, one-church town called Shawmut. Three miles past the Blessed Sacrament Mission there’s a rundown, family owned, five room motel. Outside the door of room #3, what had appeared to be an abandoned bag or bundle of laundry turned out to be a shivering teenage boy.

Sam left the door swinging open and the engine running to rush over and kneel at his side. Dean’s knees were drawn to his chest, arms hugged around them for warmth or comfort. He didn't appear to receive either. As Sam helped him to his feet, the black leather jacket hung off his body like a loose skin, no doubt letting in the cold air that whipped around them.

The kid’s cheeks were frozen between Sam's hands, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular in the distance. Sam pressed him to his chest, and Dean’s arms dangled rather than returning the embrace.

All at once, the last 18 hours of non-stop driving - without the help that caffeine would have been - caught up and slammed into him. Sam blew out a loud breath, shaking off his exhaustion. “Can we get a room here?”

“We need to get the fuck out of here.”

Sam would have asked Dean to drive, but one look at his haggard face told him it was a miracle that the boy was even standing. Once Dean was in the passenger’s seat, Sam turned the heater on full blast. He pulled back onto the road, only sparing a brief glance behind him at the otherwise empty parking lot. “You're worrying me. I'm going to take you to the hospital, okay?”

“No. No, I'm fine.”

“You don't look fine. You look…”

Dean turned his face toward Sam, blinking like there was molasses on his long eyelashes.

The world’s most gorgeous zombie.

“I'm fine, Sam.”

“What happened? When you called … When you said your father, I thought… Where's Jody?”

“Back there.”

“Is she okay? Do I need to…” Sam searched his face again for any sign of trauma or physical distress.

Dean gave him nothing. No sign. No answer. He went on staring through the windshield.

Sam covered his mouth with his palm. He would have to sleep before he could figure out what to do. Driving on auto-pilot and adrenaline fumes, he made it another few hours. They had just passed the state line into South Dakota when the gas light came on.

As he stood at the tank filling up, Sam yawned and rested his eyes.

Ten minutes later, he had checked them into the nearest hotel, which turned out to be a dingy, 1-star establishment. It didn’t have much more than a bed, but that was all Sam required. He fell onto it face first, slipping asleep as the door clicked shut.

 

***

 

That was sometime around 6 PM. Mountain Time.

When his eyes opened again, it was completely dark outside.

Dean sat folded in on himself with his back against the headboard. There was barely enough room for him with Sam’s sprawling body taking up most of the bed. “Sorry.” Sam adjusted his limbs to share the space more equitably.

Dean didn’t reply. His gaze was fixed on the black and white cartoon - or maybe it was a black and white television. Despite the grainy image and the fact that it was muted, it held Dean’s rapt attention, even when Sam sat up and patted his thigh. “You hungry?”

Dean shook his head. That had to be a first.

“Saw a vending machine. You want a Coke or something?”

When that question garnered no response at all, Sam went to relieve himself then left in search of something small to tide them over until they hit the road again. Despite the frigid temperatures outside, the soda machine in the lobby dispensed warm cans of Fanta. Dean would be thrilled.

Sam brought two of those and a few bags of chips back to the room. As he opened the door, he called out, “No complaining. It’s what they had.”

Dean hadn’t moved. He didn't show any signs of awareness that Sam had returned to the room or interest in what he had brought.

Sam shook off the cold as he stood at the side of the bed. He held the open bag of chips under Dean’s nose. The kid didn’t react, not even so much as to lean to the side so he could see the screen.

Sam wiped Dean’s hair from his forehead. It had grown a few inches in the months they’d been apart. He was taller, too, and thinner. Sam had to beat back the urge to strip him and review every inch of his body to be sure nothing was forgotten. It simply wasn’t the time for it.

Now that Dean was back, they had nothing but time.  
A strange tremor of doubt racked his body, and Sam shook it away. “I’m just going to put them on the table, okay?”

He had slept a few hours. His mind was clearer and he still had no idea what to do for Dean. He took a deep breath, rubbing his chin. When he sat down on the bed, the kid met his eyes. He moved as if his veins were full of lead, but it was progress.

Sam rested his hand on Dean’s knee. “Can you talk to me, please?”

“It was time to go.”

“And your mother?”

“She's not going to care.” Dean’s muscle flexed beneath Sam’s palm.

But he hadn’t asked him to move.

“Do you want to get some sleep?”

“Not tired.”

It was nearly midnight. So far as Sam could tell, Dean hadn’t slept since they’d arrived at the motel.

“I still need a few hours before I’m really good to drive.”

Dean nodded and went back to his cartoons.

 

***

 

Sam opened his eyes, unsure why. He had dreamed noise ...

And rolled over in time to witness Dean slamming a chair against the wall. He lifted it over his head again and smashed it to the ground.

“Dean.”

Sam climbed out of bed, crossed the room and grabbed Dean’s wrists to stop him from attacking anymore furniture. He smoothed a hand over Dean’s clammy forehead and down his face. Emerald eyes burned with rage for a moment before widening into something more like terror. “My heart.”

Sam held his palm to Dean’s chest. His pulse was far too rapid, elevated beyond the point of normal exertion. It was a possible after effect of shock. “You need to calm down.”

“No. He's gonna... Sam. Please.” Dean struggled wildly against Sam’s hold on his wrists.

When Sam let go, he dropped his face onto his shoulder.

“He’s going to kill her. He’s going to kill us both.”

Sam had no idea what had happened, and he wasn’t about to push for answers that could make present matters worse. All he knew was that he would die before he ever let a soul hurt this kid again. “You’re safe. I swear. You need to lie down.”

Dean shook his head, trembling like a twig in a monsoon, even as Sam wrapped his arms around him.

“Just lay with me.”

“I can’t. I have to--”

“You’re safe. Dean, look at me. It’s over. Okay? You’re fine.”

Even once Sam had finally coaxed him into bed, Dean’s heart continued to pound away under Sam’s hand.

“She's dead.” The announcement came with such detachment that Sam sat up and searched Dean's face for the truth.

“Your mom? Your father?”

Dean nodded.

Sam covered his mouth with his hand, mulling over what to say, what to do. “We need to call the police.”

“No. She made me promise … When I was a little kid, we made a pact. One of us bites it, the other one scrams. Someone will find her, clean it up. I don't want ... Sam, she…”

Sam waited before he asked, “What is it, Dean?” He palmed the kid’s cheek, urging him to meet his eyes again. “Dean. I'm so sorry. About your mom. I...”

Dean focused only on the screen.

Sam turned his face, kissed his lips. “We’ll figure it out. I’ll take care of it.”

 

***

 

The next time Sam opened his eyes, slivers of daylight pierced the curtains. He was still tired, but fresh enough to drive. He grabbed his phone from the bedside table, checking the time. After confirming that it was almost noon, he scrolled through his contacts, searching for Castiel’s psychiatrist. The moment he had some privacy, he’d call and see about getting Dean a light sedative and an appointment.

The kid was no longer beside him. Sam had assumed he was in the bathroom, but sitting up, he found Dean standing with his back to the corner and one of the chair legs in both hands.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked.

“Nobody and nothing is going to fucking hurt you.”

“You're right. Nobody is…” Sam slid to the edge of the bed. “Why don't you put that down?”

“You don't know... Don't know what's out there.”

“You could tell me.” Sam remained still, calm, quiet. “What's out there, Dean?”

“They’re not humans, Sam. They’re not fucking human.” Dean laughed, beautiful even as he was breaking down. “You think I'm crazy. I have to be, right? Out of my fucking mind.”

“No more than usual." Sam whispered, trying for a joke. "I'm just glad you called. I haven't stopped thinking about you.”

Dean squinted at him, gripping his bludgeon tighter. “I tell you there’s things out there and you want to fuck?”

Sam wrung his hands between his knees, holding his position. “I'm not thinking about... anything, right now, except getting you to put that thing down before you hurt yourself.”

“Before I hurt myself? Like I’m some little kid, Sam?” Dean pointed his stake in Sam’s face. "You know what, fuck it.” He stormed across the room and opened the door.

A gust of freezing wind and snow tore in forcing him to cover his face with his arm as he stumbled back. Sam leaped to his feet and slammed the door shut.

“Do you think that could be him?” Dean peeled back the curtain. “You think he can control the weather? Hole us up in here then, I don't know... smoke us out?”

“Dean, you’re not making any sense.” Sam stepped gently behind him. “Please, calm down.”

“I should have saved her, Sam. I ... just laid there. I just...”

“Dean, if you could have done anything, I know you would have.” Sam wrapped an arm around him. When Dean relaxed, he took the wooden chair leg, dropped it on the floor and held him tight.

”Oh, God.” Dean’s body lurched and shuddered as if it would shatter. He allowed himself one shaky breath before he jerked away from Sam again.

“Dean.”

“I’m fine.”

As much as he ached to do so, Sam didn’t reach out for Dean again or try to coax him back. He watched, helpless, as the kid glared at the air vent as if the storm would find its way in and devour them.

Dean picked up and gripped his impromptu club, muttering like a madman, "I'm not going to let him hurt you."


	30. Chapter 30

The car idled while Sam gripped the Hell out of 10 and 2. He scraped his tongue with his teeth, trying to remove a bitter film that had settled there. 

He hadn't been back since Christmas, and although his parents and sister lived in the house, they were little more than strangers. In his most vivid memories behind those walls, Sam performed happiness, aching with soul-deep hunger.

Beside him, Dean just as likely saw Sam's prison as a palace.

They had weathered that storm in Montana. The two days of travel since passed in peace, compared to Dean's breakdown there. He hardly spoke. Most of the trip, he stared through the passenger window or at a TV screen. Sam hadn't seen him sleep a wink and had stopped wasting his breath with questions.

Dean had scoffed at psychiatric help. No surprise there. Then, he'd obliterated Sam's naïve assumptions about Dean staying with him. There they sat, casing the Winchester house as if they were plotting to rob it. “This is what you want?”

“It's what I need,” Dean said and offered no further explanation. “You coming in?”

Sam hadn't planned on it, but neither was he ready to leave the boy's side. He cut the engine and trailed behind him up the walkway. As the kid knocked, Sam placed a hand low on his back. The contact might calm both of their nerves. When Dean rolled his shoulders, Sam took the hint and stopped touching him.

Jo answered the door, and her jaw dropped like a cartoon character.

“Hey.” Dean flashed his cockiest smirk. "Miss me?"

Apparently, she was allowed to fling her arms around his neck and press her body up against his. Sam diverted his eyes as Dean hooked an arm about her waist. It was a full minute before Dean cleared his throat. Jo released him, too slow for Sam’s taste, and stepped back with a milder expression than he remembered ever seeing on her face. Less brattiness, more tender relief, like what Sam had felt the moment he'd heard Dean's voice again.

When they entered the living room, his mother gasped and leaped to her feet, abandoning a book on the sofa. “JoAnna, go tell your father.”

Jo scampered off like a happy housebroken puppy.

Sam's mother squeezed Dean once, then leaned back to study his face. Midwestern affection: abrupt and thorough. As a child, Sam had never doubted his mother's love, not because she constantly stated it, which she didn't. She did, however, cut the edges off his sandwiches and pour him extra milk before he’d even asked for it. If there was any other person on earth Sam trusted to care for Dean, it was Mary Winchester. She led him to the fridge, rubbing small circles between his shoulder blades, promising to fatten him right up.

They disappeared as John emerged with Jo. Sam nodded toward the kitchen, in answer to her searching gaze.

She flitted along after Dean and their mother, leaving Sam alone with his father who headed back in the direction he had come. Sam glanced after the others, then obeyed the silent command to follow.

His heart skipped a beat as he descended the staircase into the man-cave. This place Sam used to think of as Shangri-la. He was first granted entry on his twelfth birthday, and it was a rite of passage every bit as meaningful as some of his friends’ Bar Mitzvahs.

After that, he and his father had worked on the Impala together on Saturdays, like religion (the only exception being when they had championships). It was a precious ritual. The Winchester men rose before dawn, ran 10 miles, shared a massive breakfast and spent the rest of the day under her hood, or as Sam’s dad had always called it, her dress.

‘Get your head up under her dress, boy.’

The lovely, lonely girl slept under a blue tarp. Who knew the last time she'd seen any action?

Most of his father's tools rested in the same locations, spotless as ever. His gun case remained stocked the same as Sam remembered, with a few new additions.

Shooting had been a summer activity. Target practice in the woods damn near every day, dragging themselves through the muck, engaging in hand to hand combat. Once or twice, a buddy had come along, but Sam’s dad was way too hardcore for most people.

By the time he was 16, Sam had won his first spar against John who declared that a son of his should be able to out run, out rumble, and out shoot any Marine, but never be cocky about it. The skills he’d earned were like a concealed weapon: not meant to show off, but to be used, without apology, in case of an emergency.

Sam's former commander sat in a steel folding chair with his shoulders slumped. A cooler of beers yawned at his right foot. Empty bottles lay strewn around, fallen soldiers on a battlefield. “Where'd you find him?”

"He called me."

There was a hiss as John cracked open a fresh one. He didn't bother to offer a drink to his son. Had he remembered Sam's sensitivity or was a gay accountant not worthy of his Corona?

“Leave him alone, you hear me?”

"Yes, Sir.” Sam could have told his father it wouldn’t be a problem, but it was none of the old man’s business. 

When Sam had tried to kiss him, Dean’s exact words had been that he ‘needed to get his head clear.’

And, of course, Sam understood that. The kid had just lost his mother and been through God knew what with his father. That was all Sam pieced together before Dean refused to talk about it anymore. So, sure, he was under a lot of stress. And as swell as it would be if Dean came running into Sam's arms, that wasn’t how the kid ticked.

Best to be grateful that he was back.

“You know, I have asked myself about a million times how I could have done better with you.” John peered down the neck of his bottle like he was issuing a confession to his beer. “They say, now, that you’re a fag from birth. I don’t know. I don't care. It’s still a matter of choice how you live. What I can’t understand is how it got to the point that you started preying on little kids? How the hell did that happen, Sam?”

“He’s not …”

John waved his bottle in Sam's direction. “Just shut up.”

Sam clenched his jaw to keep the heat in his chest from erupting into an argument.

“He's going to go all the way. You know that, don't you?" His father slurred. "He's going to be everything you weren't. He’s smarter on the field. Stronger. Faster ... Fucking fearless. You were always so cautious. That was the biggest problem with you. Cautious ... because I pampered you. Me and your mother, both."

Sam headed for the door with his heart pounding - a motor with its temperature reaching perilous levels.

“Just stay away from him, Sam. Leave him alone, so you don’t poison his chances like you did your own?”

It was agony like amputation without anesthesia, but Sam would respect Dean’s desire to keep things platonic for as long as he needed. Completely losing him again? “I can’t do that.”

“Well, you heard what I said. I don't give a shit who else you screw, but you touch him again, I'll fucking skin you. Now, get out.”

 

***

 

Dean stuffed his face so he wouldn't have to talk. Also, because the food was amazing. Nobody asked him anything. The females sat there with their chins in their hands watching him eat. The coach didn't even show his face.

Sam left without saying a word, which was weird, but also easier than a long, drawn-out goodbye.

It also turned out that Mrs. Winchester was a super-organized hoarder. She had kept all of Dean's gifts from Sam dust-free with a mint-smelling moth ball in one of those pirate chests like she had for Sam memorabilia. Once he was stuffed with meatloaf and mashed potatoes, showered and dressed in a fresh t-shirt and boxers, Dean sat on his bed, in the dark, with the Swiss blade open to the serrated edge.

His knuckles ached from his death grip on the thing. With the other hand, he swiped at the cold sheen of sweat coating his face before curling it into a fist on his thigh. His blunt nails bit into his palm. “Come on, you fuckers,” he murmured to the darkness, with no idea what he was braced for.

All his life, it had been a matter of survival to sense when something was coming. Apprehension buzzed in Dean's teeth like the crackle of electricity before thunder. There was no avoiding this trouble, only keeping alert and refusing sleep, like he'd done for days.

The moment his head nodded, strangers hovered over him. Thin wisps of black smoke seeped from their mouths as they murmured in some bizarre language. One of them sharpened a carving knife while another pair hogtied Dean to a pole. They laughed at his struggles, mimicked his cries for help until they'd gagged him.

Then they suspended the pole over a fire. Dean had been spit-roasted before, but this shit was neither fun nor funny.

Jody stood by his bound feet, turning a crank and grinning while the flame licked at his back, his ribs, his face and on and on in slow cycles. Dean's screams were muffled behind the filthy rag. His skin bubbled, cracked and flaked from his hull. Muscle charred, fat sizzled and dripped into the pit. Boy barbecue.

A man's voice asked, “How much longer?”

“Almost ready,” Jody said and carried on cranking.

Dean’s eyes popped open to the sound of himself panting in the pitch-black room. Overdriven heart leaped into raw throat. A shadowy form skulked closer. It reached out a hand. Reflexes lashed out before reason kicked in. By the time he saw who it was, it was too late. By sheer luck, he only sliced Jo’s arm rather than slashing open her belly.

She shrieked and shrinked away.

“Fuck. I'm sorry." Dean tossed his knife to the floor, clicked on the light and took Jo’s arm by the wrist and elbow.

A two-inch, white-deep gash gaped back at him.  _Subcutaneous_ : that kind of useless information was MIA when he sat for an anatomy exam. By some miracle, there was very little blood. Still, it was way more of Jo than Dean had ever wanted to see. "Jesus. What the hell are you doing in here?"

"You were screaming." She gawked at the wound but didn't so much as whimper.

Dean wrapped the edge of the sheet around it and applied pressure. “Fuck.”

 Jo sucked in a breath, met his eyes, and of all things, she apologized.

“No. I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have freaked out like that.”

“Why do you sleep with a knife?”

“Hold your hand on this." Dean went for the door. “I'll go get your mom.”

“No!”

He stopped, shocked by Jo's reaction.

“If they hear I was in your room ..."

It was a good point. “We can't just leave it. What do you want --”

“Bring the red box from under the bathroom sink. Please.”

First Aid he could do. Dean chuckled to himself as he cleaned off Jo's arm with iodine. It might require sutures and would certainly need to be explained.

“What’s so funny?”

He shook his head. That time he'd patched Sam up after that ridiculous bar fight was months ago, but felt like years. Jo was a much better patient than her brother. She kept still and quiet and let Dean finish without interrupting or trying to undress him. “Can I suggest you not sneak up on people while they’re sleeping?”

“What were you even dreaming about?”

Dean handed Jo a couple of painkillers and stood to return the kit. She took the box from his hand and sat it on the floor. Perched on the side of his bed, she held out her good hand and said, "I could stay. Keep you company. If you want.”

 

***

 

The knock came well before dawn: Gestapo-loud. Dean’s phone blinked back at him. 4:37 AM. Another knock, followed by Coach Winchester calling his name.

Dean had spent most of the night stroking and braiding Jo’s tropical-scented hair like he used to do with his mother’s when he was little. Other than that, he'd watched Jo sleep. At least somebody could. 

Beside Sam, Dean was small and weak with emotional bullshit he had no clue how to deal with. Jo looked up to him, saw Dean as bigger than he was. 

The coach knocked again.

“Just a second,” Dean called out.

Jo stirred and gasped, wide-eyed in an instant.

Dean held a finger to his lips and made his way to the door while Jo did a smooth ninja roll off of and under the bed. Dean suppressed his laughter and opened the door a crack. If the coach was looking for Jo, he’d just say he had no fucking clue where she was. He made an Oscar-worthy performance of rubbing his eyes and yawning. “Yes, sir.”

Coach Winchester, already in his work out gear, handed some things to Dean. “Ten minutes.”

“Sir?”

“We're going for a run.”

“Uh... Okay.”

“Meet me by the front door.” With that, the old man turned and marched up the hall.

Dean closed and locked his door. He offered his hand as Jo crawled out. She gave him her good arm and let him help her to her feet.

"Thank you," Dean said, meaning the company.

She grinned, meaning God knew what. "No problem."

“How's that?” Dean winced. He'd been cut before. It was no picnic. 

She cradled the arm against her body. “Hurts.” 

“Go crazy with the Tylenol. I'll take a look before school. We might have to make up something and get you to a doctor.”

Jo nodded and started to leave Dean’s room so he could suit up. At the door, she turned and must have caught a glimpse of Dean in his shorts the way she spun back around as if her virginal eyes would burn from the sight. “You know, you can tell him you don’t feel like it.”

“Yeah. I know.”

 

***

 

By the dim light of the streetlamps and despite a damp wind, Dean followed the coach down to the sidewalk. He mimicked the man, pulling his heel to his glutes to stretch out his quads. “So,” he said. “How’d the season end?”

“Boys crashed and burned.” Coach Winchester switched legs.

Dean did the same. “Sorry.”

The old man shrugged. “We’re going to crush next season.” He dropped his foot and leveled a stare on Dean’s face. “You are sticking around, right?”

Dean nodded. This time, the coach mirrored him. Then he lunged forward, keeping his right thigh parallel to the ground to limber up his hamstrings and calves.

"My mother's dead,” Dean said with the same tone he’d used to ask about the team.

Coach Winchester stood up straight and furrowed his brow. He frowned and seemed to consider the best, most sensitive response before he asked, "When?"

Dean shrugged and kept stretching. "Few days ago."

"What happened?"

"Some guy..." While he should have been asking about black smoke, something else spilled out of Dean’s mouth. "She always told me he was my dad."

He dropped to the ground, pretending to retie his shoe.

"Dean, look at me.”

Still on one knee, Dean looked up, spared seeing the man’s face by the lack of daylight.

“I am your father."

Dean switched knees and untied the other shoe so he’d have to tie it again. The moment was a little too Star Wars to be occurring in real life. He would just lay low until it passed.

"I know it's hard to ... and I want to tell Mary. Believe me, I do. But she will not understand.” He sucked in a loud breath that could have been a sniffle, or not. “No one can know but me, you and Sam."

Dean nodded. It made no fucking sense whatsoever, just like everything else in his life.

“I only told him so he would stop..." Coach shuddered, and Dean had no trouble guessing what he was picturing. The old man had gotten an eyeful. "What, was he giving you money? Buying you things?"

A spurt of stomach acid made its way up Dean’s throat. “Can we not talk about that?”

"I want you to know, son, I don't blame you. You gotta do what you gotta do to survive. I’ve been there. Not  _there_ -there, but … You work what you got, right?" Coach scratched the back of his neck. “Most folks don't know this, but when I was your age, guys in my neighborhood used to pay me to crack skulls. Called me the Hit Man. It was fine until I beat up the wrong guy. Some senator’s kid. What he was even doing in Prospect Park? Probably buying smack. Who knows? When it came down to it, that’s not what mattered. What mattered was the 32 fucking stitches and the busted arm I gave him. Anyway, that shit could have … Entirely ruined my life.”

Dean stood silent, letting the wind smack him in the face.

“You see what I'm saying? Your choices matter.” Coach Winchester thumped his shoulder. "Point is, I get it. I come from where you come from. But you don't need to do that kind of garbage anymore. I'm looking out for you, okay? I got your back."

Without another word, Coach nodded and took off. Dean swayed on his feet for a few moments. Since there was no way to process any of the previous five minutes, he shook his head clear and started running.

Winchester was fast as fuck for an old guy.

Dean hadn't run in months and had smoked like a chimney the entire time. He’d slept a grand total of an hour, even with Jo beside him in bed. After a few minutes or an hour or a fucking eternity, Dean stopped, leaned against a tree, and yacked all over its roots.

It was no surprise to find his insides slicking up the grass. Every nasty thing inside of him wanted out. His stomach seized tight again, lips parting of their own accord as even more spewed out of him. He stared at the puddle of slime and poorly chewed food. No traces of black gunk. Every time his mouth forced itself open, he waited for that black smoke to come flying out of him - like exhaust farting out of the back of a sixteen-wheeler, or as if his soul was on fire.

Dean wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

The coach jogged in place a few yards ahead of him. “Alright. Let's move.”

Dean heaved in a gulp of air, sweaty forehead on his arm against the coarse bark. When he straightened his spine, his head spun. Still, he gave a sharp nod and started running again. The worst it could do was kill him.

 

***

 

Sam paused at the door that separated the parking garage from his office building. It was tricky business trying to speak loudly enough for a phone conversation, but quietly enough that his voice didn’t echo out on the concrete. “Listen. I understand that, Ruby, and I’m glad you don’t need it. … Yes, I realize that. It’s not the point…”

He forced a courteous smile as one his co-workers nodded, “Good morning” and passed him to enter the building.

“You know what? This is not a good time. Would you just, please, stop returning my checks? Put it away for her or something. We can talk about options. Just, please … That’s perfect. Thank you. I’ll talk to you later.”

 

***

 

The coach’s hand hung open in the air like a surgeon awaiting his scalpel. “That is a lug wrench. I asked for the monkey wrench.”

Dean was a nurse, first day on the job. He screwed up his face and tried again. Monkey wrench. Monkey wrench. If there were going to be so many kinds of wrenches, they ought to fucking label these things. He replaced the lug wrench, repeating the name to himself, and picked up what looked like a giant silver X. It could only be right or wrong.

Coach Winchester nodded and accepted it. Dean kept the sigh and the smile off his face.

“Alright. Get your head up under her dress.”

Dean chuckled and leaned in so he could see what the man was doing.

 

***

 

Sam jumped when the hand landed on his shoulder. He tugged out his earbud and let it hang so he could hear Adrian suggest, “Lunch at Guido’s?”

“Uh, sure. I’m in.”

Adrian grinned and gave him two thumbs up.

Sam glanced at his phone. He was not going to be a nuisance. He would give Dean space. Let him text or call when he felt like it. And if that meant hardly ever, fine.

Sam bit his lip and replaced his bud. He closed his eyes, and bathed his mind in the Well-Tempered Clavier before getting back to work.

 

***

 

The slam of a locker door is language. It ought to send a message: ‘For the last time. Shut the fuck up about this.’

“Jo’s in it,” Garth said, apparently unable to interpret Locker.

“Good for Jo.” Dean turned and walked up the hall toward the nearest exit.

He and Garth were the same height, but somehow the dweeb always appeared to scurry to keep up. “She said you might be down.”

“Well, she was wrong.”

“Come on, Dean. We need you.”

The double doors to freedom came into view as they rounded the corner. “Garth, it’s neat that you’re … you know, that you’ve made this your pet cause or something ...”

“Did you know, in places like Russia and Uganda, it’s still illegal to--”

“This is Kansas, man. If you haven’t noticed, gays can do everything straights can do now.”

“OK. So, hold my hand.”

Dean gaped down at it like he was being offered a grenade - with a freshly-pulled pin. “Why in hell would I do that?”

“To prove the point.”

"What fucking point?"

“Would you walk down the hall holding your boyfriend’s hand?”

Dean lowered his voice as a teacher passed. “I don’t have a fucking boyfriend.” 

“If you did…”

Dean busted through to the other side: sunshine, but a bitch of a wind. He folded up the collar on the coat he’d gotten from Sam and hunched his shoulders to conserve warmth. Garth didn't even seem to notice the cold. He just kept chattering, “You wouldn’t, would you? Maybe some schools in some big city somewhere, maybe, you could. But here? You’d get your ass kicked.”

“Nobody’s kicking my ass.” Dean bent forward and unlocked the chain around the bike Coach Winchester had bought for him.

A Fortified Theft-Resistant commuter bike. It was an inside joke since both Dean and the Coach had stories about stealing bikes for cash. Dean had had to learn to ride the fucking thing, first, but that had gone smoothly once he got used to the fact that he was going to fall a few hundred times no matter what he did.

Jo was a good teacher: patient and funny. She spent most of the time making fun of him about being a 16-year-old who hadn't learned how to ride a bike yet. One weekend of skinned elbows and knees, and there he was, pulling his bike out of the rack. He gripped the handlebars tight to keep himself from shoving Garth onto his ass for the sheer insolence of suggesting that someone could kick his ass.

“Okay, let me rephrase that. Most kids would get their ass kicked,” Garth said. Then he leaned closer and dropped the bomb he’d been holding in since last fall. “Dean, stop trying to bullshit me. You were totally sucking face with Sam Winchester.”

Dean blew out a stilted breath and looked around to be sure no one else was close enough to hear this goddamned conversation. He leaned even closer to Garth, holding fierce eye contact as he whispered, “I wasn't sucking any--”

“You were. I saw you, and I never said anything about it to anyone, but --”

“We were talking.”

“About Tongue Twister? Come on. Why are you denying it to me?” Garth shrugged. “I think it’s cool. That guy is fucking legendary around here. The only reason nobody talks about him is because the coach is weird about it.”

“That’s not what happened.” Dean nudged up his kickstand. “Okay?”

Garth blinked at him. “You two are probably the coolest gay people on --”

Dean shoved his bike and grabbed Garth’s shirt in both fists. “I'm not gay, Garth.”

“Okay.” The dork held up both hands. “Then, be the straight part of the alliance. You're not a basher, are you?”

Dean dropped him and sniffed, taking a step back and running his fingers through his hair to calm himself. “You know me better than that.”

“Exactly. So, be an ally.”

“Look. I’m not here to save the world, man. I’m just trying to live my life, and believe me, that shit is complicated enough.” Understatement of the century. “I don’t know what kind of difference you think some group is going to make anyway.”

“Maybe none to you.” Garth picked up Dean's bike. “And maybe the whole world to someone else. I know you care about people. So, why not do something?”

It was one of those moments when Dean missed not having friends. It used to be, everywhere he went, he was this anonymous ghost haunting the school, passing like a shadow between the kids who’d been together forever. Sometimes, he wondered how it felt to be more than ‘the new kid with the killer arm.’ Now he had people he would call friends, it was a pain in the neck. “Fuck off, Garth. Are you even into guys?”

“No. Not really. I just want everybody to be cool with each other... and themselves and all. And because you're cool, and that's indisputable--”

“I'm not doing it.” Dean hopped onto his saddle.

“Maybe you'll reconsider.”

“Ain't gonna happen, Garth.” He kicked off and called over his shoulder, “Put it out of your goofy mind.”

 

***

 

Castiel occupied Dean’s spot, if not his place, on Sam’s bed. They both sat upright with their backs pressed to the headboard, legs crossed at the ankle. Cas' hand moved with mechanical precision in a slow loop from the half-empty bowl of kettle corn in his lap to his mouth and back again.

On the screen, in the shadow of the majestic Montana Rockies, Tristan Ludlow rode one lovely mare and led another across the prairie. When he alit, he slung his arm around his little's brother’s neck and sauntered over to meet his bride-to-be.

One look at the hunger and depth in those eyes and Sam couldn't resist. He picked his phone up and thumbed in a message to Dean.

SW: Thinking of you

A few minutes later, when no reply was forthcoming, he followed up with:

SW: Have you ever seen Legends of the Fall?

Within 30 seconds, Dean responded:

DS: You mean Brad Pitt Being Crazy Hot? That's the actual original title

He punctuated with a flame emoji and an eggplant, for good measure. Sam smiled.

SW: Is it the face or the hair?

DS: That scene when he beat that bigot bartender's ass. That was the first time I realized I wanted to fuck guys

Sam issued a silent debt of gratitude to the makers of the film and typed: So am I more Samuel or Alfred?

DS: You're sure as shit not Samuel. I'll die before I let you

For some reason, that sent off a flare in Sam's chest. This kid. Sam ought to be laughing out loud. Instead, he drew in a breath. Rather than let on how inexplicably touching/romantic/confusing he found Dean's needless protectiveness, he responded: Thanks for the spoiler.

DS: Sorry

SW: No big deal.

DS: How have you not seen that before? 

SW: Just haven't.  

DS: You watching alone?

Sam looked at Castiel and replied: Yeah

DS: Well, it's a damn good movie, but they should have all just shared the chick

SW:I didn't know any of that, so, thanks.

DS: Sorry again. Why are you even watching that?

SW: Somebody told me it was about brothers. Thought I should study up. 

'Somebody' peeked over at Sam's screen and asked, "That the kitten?"

Sam refused to honor Castiel's nickname for Dean with a reply.

"Tell him I said hey."

SW: What are you doing?

DS: Fucking homework. After that your dad wants me to run

SW: Thought you were running mornings.

DS: He added alternating evenings

SW: That's fucking insane.

DS: Language, princess

SW: That is not a healthy regimen at your age.

DS: Just for the off season. That and some gym time. Keeping me sharp

SW: I don't like it.

DS: Noted

SW: I actually hate it.

DS: Why? Don't want me to outclass you?

Sam stared at the phone, at the TV screen where Susannah Fincannon watched Tristan Ludlow break a horse, at Castiel and back at the phone again. Dean had been kidding and yet, Sam couldn't think of the right way to answer him.

DS: Saw some footage of you playing in college, by the way  
DS: Hate to say it, but I can see how you broke your old man's heart

DS: Fuck Brady, man. You should have been a legend


	31. Chapter 31

As Jo reached across the table for a second roll, her mother pointed her fork at the bandage on her arm. “Did they ever fix that railing at your school? Do I need to call someone and pitch a fit?”

Jo and Dean shared a glance, and she did her best not to smile. “It’s fine, Mom. They fixed it.”

“What was that look?” Mrs. Winchester asked Jo and then Dean who shrugged and stuffed his mouth with corn. “Thick as a pair of thieves these days, aren't you?”

Jo elbowed Dean just as he picked up his glass, causing him to drown his dinner in cranberry juice cocktail. He kicked her shin under the table, and she swore.

"Would you two knock it off? John!"

"You heard your mother," Coach mumbled over his food.

Dean ignored the slip and stole a piece of broccoli from Jo's dish - not because he wanted it - just to hear her squeal about it. “Tell us a little something about Kyle Whitman, JoAnna. Minds are inquiring.” He slurped the nasty green thing from his fork and smirked.

Jo nudged him again. "I do not like him."

"No, you love him." He swirled his napkin over his drenched turkey.

"You know who you love? Ashlee Greene."

"Ew. Come on." Dean flung the wet linen at Jo and missed when she dodged.

"Now, you have to pick that up."

Dean sucked his teeth and got up to get the stupid thing.

"How come she's always at your locker, then?"

"Exactly," Dean said. "She's always at my locker. You never see me at hers." Then he dropped the napkin sopping with juice and gravy onto Jo's head.

"Mom!!"

Dean howled with laughter and bolted out of the room with Jo hot on his heels.

“Animals!” Mrs. Winchester yelled, but they were long gone.

 

***

 

Sam knocked before turning the knob, “You want any --”

The potent stink of urine forced him to clamp a hand over his nose and mouth.

Castiel had been doing so well that Sam had forgotten to worry about him. Cas would get up in the morning, do Sudoku and ask Sam for help with crossword puzzles during breakfast. They ate quiet dinner together after work, sometimes watched a show. He hardly spoke, never complained. It was like having a pet.

Castiel lay on top of the covers on his bed, limp and pale. The stench was strong enough that he must have been marinating in his piss all day.

Sam whipped open the curtains to let in the last remaining minutes of daylight. He rifled through the chaos in Cas’ bedside table until he found the bottles for his meds. Rolling them over in his hand, he read that the prescription was filled a couple of months ago, although this should only be a four-week supply.

“You being consistent with these?”

Castiel rolled over to avoid Sam’s eyes.

“Cas.” Sam caught his shoulder and forced him to turn back around. “You can't just stop taking this stuff. Even if your psychiatrist says it’s okay, you still have to taper off. Maybe you need a new prescription, but you can't …”

His eyes remained glassy and blank. Sam hauled Castiel to his feet and then over his shoulder to the shower, where he washed him with brisk, efficient scrubs, like he would a dog. Sam rested the sole of Castiel’s foot on his thigh and lathered one of his still powerful leg. “Hey. I passed a dance studio the other day. They had a sign up that they’re looking for teachers.”

Sam had stripped down to his boxers, to be expedient, but he took great care not to let anything other than his hands and the soap touch Castiel's body. “Didn't go in, but I got the number. Would love to see you doing that again. Maybe draw some unsuspecting young guy into your web…”

“And suck the life out of him, like I did to you.” The sclera of Castiel’s eyes were so red, he must have been crying or rubbing them for hours.

“That's not true.”

“I ruined you.”

Sam stood, put down the soap and bowed until he'd caught Castiel’s gaze. “Look at me. Cas. You saved my life. Where do you think I would be right now if I hadn't met you? If I was still alive, I don’t even want to imagine how miserable I would --”

“You were miserable with me.”

“Sometimes.” There was no point lying. “A lot of the time. Yeah. I was.”

“Only your kitten makes you happy.”

“I love Dean,” Sam said. “The way, I think, you loved Stephen ... warts and all, accept no substitutes, right?”

Castiel’s mouth snapped shut.

“I’m sorry. I didn't mean to....”

His teeth chattered as he shivered so hard that Sam turned off the water and closed his arms around his body to provide heat and comfort until Castiel pushed him away.

“Look at this.” He shook his soft belly in both hands. “How can I dance like this? Nobody wants to see this move.”

Sam caught him and held tight to both wrists. “Castiel. Listen to me. You are now, and you have always been, beautiful.”

Cas struggled to extricate his hands. Sam let them go to retrieve a towel. As he wrapped Castiel in it, he said it again because nothing had ever been more true. “A beautiful, beautiful mess.”

 

***

 

The chemistry book skidded across the kitchen table and landed on the floor. "Yeah, you know what? You can go home, because I'm gonna flunk this shit."

Sam picked up the text book, closed it and placed it atop the breakfast island. "You're not going to flunk it, Dean."

"Yeah. I am." He stood and kicked over his stool. "You’re wasting your fucking time."

"You need to get a hold of yourself. Pick up the chair."

Dean scowled at him for a few seconds before he did as he was asked.

Sam helped him scoot it into place. "First of all, it's a test. It's not the end of the world."

Sam had no idea how right he was. A Chem test wasn’t ever going to be the end of the world. The black smoke bullshit with Dean’s mother, on the other hand, was a constant burning question in the back of his mind. At night, it was damn near unbearable even if nothing worse than nightmares ever came.

During the day, he could push it away with training, or goofing around with Garth, or even fucking homework. That was the gist of Dean's survival plan: block it out all day and suffer at night. Even with Jo curled up beside him, he sat awake waiting forTrouble to come.

Sam knew nothing about that. All Sam knew was that Dean was an idiot who couldn't grasp the concept of supersaturation if his life depended on it.

Dean snapped his freshly sharpened # 2 pencil in one hand. "You know what? I'm not taking it. I suck at tests. There's not any point."

***

"Hey." Sam grabbed Dean's face between his hands. "You've studied. You've done what you could do. Now, you need to relax. Okay?"

If he was being honest, Sam couldn't claim to have forgotten himself. But Dean was right there, needing to be touched and grounded the same way Sam needed to feel him. His fingers kneaded Dean's nape; his thumb stroked his cheek. Their eyes connected for a moment. Sam didn't mean to look at Dean's mouth or to lick his own lips. When it happened the kid shrugged away.

Sam closed his eyes and breathed through the heat in his chest. "You'll do great."

"Yeah." Dean crossed the room, opened the fridge and got himself a soda.

He leaned back against the stainless steel door, situating himself as far from Sam as he could without fleeing the room.

"I guess I'll go now."

Dean nodded.

It had been an entire week since the last time they’d seen each other. Studying on Thursdays wasn’t enough. Sam stood there, drinking Dean in, letting the blood rush in his ears until his mother bounced in and chirped, "How's the Chemistry going?"

Sam gave the best smile he could muster, which must look sickly, judging by the way Dean averted his eyes. “I’ll see you guys next week.”

"Are you not staying for dinner?" Sam’s mother asked, hands on her hips.

“Not tonight. I've got, um ... a ton of stuff."

Dean kept his back turned and waved goodbye over his shoulder.

 

***

 

Jo rolled over a few minutes after Dean awoke. She pulled his hands down from rubbing the shit out of his eyes. If he could have plucked them out of the sockets, he would have. Or doused and torched his brain. Anything to burn away those images. He'd had that same dream about Sam.

"You okay?"

Dean nodded and wiped the tear from the corner of his eye. He stroked Jo’s hair back from her forehead and kissed her there. "Just going to get something to eat."

The house was dark and quiet. He grabbed a drink from the fridge and bag of chips from the pantry and slipped down into the man-cave. There, he threw the tarp back from the Impala, ran his fingertips over her hood and cooed, “Hey, Gorgeous.”

Settled on a stool, he squinted down at the manual and didn’t leave that spot until the phone in his pocket chimed that it was time to run.

 

***

 

“That's easy. Spring.” Dean leaned back with his elbows propped on the brick half-wall on the far end of the school yard.

With the sun shining on his face like the smile of God, there wasn't a thing on earth that could shake his mood. Not even stupid questions, which was good, because Garth kept them coming. For the last twenty minutes, he'd been hitting Dean with ridiculous getting-to-know-you crap, like ‘what’s your favorite season?’

Usually, Dean ignored Garth when he got like this. This wasn’t the fucking Newlywed Game. They were a couple of teenage boys, bored out of their gourds. But hanging out with Garth was better than sitting somewhere pining over Sam. Or worse, giving in and hitting him up, calling his phone, reaching out, making Sam some kind of life raft and drowning him, too.

No one could carry this weight but Dean. Alone.

There were few diversions as effective as Garth's random ass interviews. So, Dean humored Garth and distracted himself.

“Got one word for you. Skin, man. I mean, look at this.” Dean spread his arms, pointing out the parade of girls in shorts and skirts on their way to buses and cars. “Three weeks ago, you wouldn't have been seeing those knees. Three weeks from now, you'll be looking at thighs. And when they sit down and the skirts ride up...”

“Yeah. True,” Garth said, perched on the wall at Dean’s right side, spindly legs dangling. “But what about the winter sports?”

“What about the sports?”

“Well, obviously, you got football.”

Dean shrugged.

“How can you be all…” Garth mimicked the shrug. “Don't you want to, like, you know, go all the way?”

“That'd be cool, I guess.”

Garth turned up his crooked nose as if Dean had cracked off a fart. “Not a lot of people have what you have. It’s kind of offensive to see you be all ... I'm just saying, lot of guys would kill---”

“Don't get me wrong, G. I love the game. Just… It used to be fun. Not...”

Garth couldn't know. Nobody who hadn't been there knew what it was like for people to act like a game was mortal combat when the only thing between winning and losing is what you do with a scrap of pigskin. “I like playing football. It’s just not the meaning of life.”

“Well, in winter, you also got ice skating which means also hockey. Sledding, skiing.”

This girl walked past, fucking beautiful. Long dark hair, skinny jeans, and a sweater, like she hadn't seen a weather forecast and it didn't matter, because she was going to be hot no matter what clothes she had on. “I'm sorry, bro. I'll take that over a toboggan any day.”

Dean met her curious gaze and raised her a smile, which she returned as she crossed the field to climb into a pickup with some community college looking asshole.

It wasn't that long ago that Sam used to pick Dean up from school - meet him at that bus stop around the corner. Then they'd go off and ...

Dean crushed the swell of yearning and smacked Garth's chest. “Spring, dude. Real people don't ski.”

 

***

 

As soon as Dean answered, Sam said, “Hey. How was your day?”

“Decent. What’s up?”

He sounded annoyed, impatient or tired. John had been working the kid like he was prepping for a tryout. He was likely getting ready for bed. Sam wouldn’t keep him. He had the one question. “Would you go to dinner with me tomorrow?”

“Uh…”

“Your pick.”

Silence was better than an outright refusal.

“Is that a yes?”

“You want to, like, swing by Taco Bell or something?”

“No.” Sam laughed. “You know what, I'll pick. Just, um... wear a tie.”

“Sam.”

Sam shut his eyes and rolled his lips together. At least Dean wasn't there to see him struggling to keep it together. “Not a date. Just dinner.”

 

***

 

In an irritating attempt at helpfulness, Sam had created a box of flashcards with SAT vocabulary words on one side and real life translations on the other. For example, some of the time, Dean would wake up in the morning with a hard on that would not abate (SAT translation: go the fuck away).

It’s one of nature’s practical jokes on sixteen-year-old boys all over the world. That was fine back when Dean was sleeping and waking alone on a couch. It was less cool when he was lying beside a girl who might be his half-sister, who was definitely his coach’s virgin daughter, and who was probably the best friend he’d ever had.

Much like Dean’s boner, spring had sprung - hard. And like all teenage girls everywhere, the warmer it got, the less fabric Jo wore. The night before the morning in question, she’d slipped into his room wearing a sleeveless t-shirt and these tiny pink shorts with rabbits on them. Dean trained his eyes on the wall.

In the corner of his eye, Jo looked down at herself. “Should I put on something else?””

“Nah. You’re good.” He held his arm open for her, like he always did.

Jo crawled onto the bed and rested her head on his chest. She eased up the bottom of his shirt and made her fingers dance like Rockettes around his navel. She was humming her way up to, "Start spreading the news," when he chuckled and swatted it away.

Dean buried his nose in her hair and sighed. For months, he'd been meaning to call off the never-ending slumber party. All it took was for her to spend a night at a friend's house. Without her there, he’d wake up after an hour shaking and in tears.

“Did Ashlee ask you?”

Dean nodded.

“She said she would. “

“So did Corrinne and Becca,” he added. “And some girl whose name I don’t know.”

“Wow.” Jo tensed. “Sounds like you have your pick of the litter. But that’s not really new to you, is it?”

“You know any guy who asks you out has to, at least, have a pair.”

“Cause of my dad.”

“You should say yes. Get a limo. Do that whole thing.”

“He always smells like Doritos.”

“That’s hot.”

Jo laughed and punched him in the gut. She folded up her knees; Dean wrapped his arms around her calves. It was too warm to cuddle like this and within moments they were both sweating. Still, neither of them moved an inch other than to breathe in the other’s scent until they were lulled (SAT translation: chilled) to sleep.

 

***

 

Dean came into the house a little after 6:30 AM. Mrs. Winchester stood at the kitchen island taking scissors to a roll of glimmering blue paper. She smiled without interrupting her work. “How was your run?”

“Good.”

He dug a Gatorade out of the fridge and swiped it across his forehead, watching as she tried out various methods for wrapping a blender.

“Sam doesn't already have this, does he?”

Dean choked on his drink.

Mrs. Winchester looked up at him. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to assume ... I figured you'd been to his home”

“I haven't.” Dean screwed the top back on the bottle. “I don't know.”

“Well, I hope he doesn't. I've heard it's a very good one, but there’s no point if he already has it, right?”

Dean sucked at math, but two and two he could do. “Is it today?”

“Twenty-eight.”

Shit. “Thought you were pissed at him.”

“Peeved,” she corrected. “I want him to be part of Luna's life. I think he'll be an outstanding father, don't you?”

Dean shrugged and obeyed when she asked him to place a finger in the center of her bow.

 

***

 

When Castiel slipped into the kitchen, he'd shaved and showered and looked healthier than he had in weeks, in part because not supine in a bed or on the sofa. He held out his hands, both balled into fists with the knuckles toward the floor. “You have your choice of two potential gifts.”

“Is either explosive?” Sam asked around a spoonful of oatmeal.

“One of them ends with liquid, and is potentially hazardous.”

Sam winced and tapped the back of one hand. The fingers unfurled, palm turning toward the ceiling. Sam picked up and unfolded the small, blue piece of paper. “I appreciate the offer, but…”

“You know it’s one of my great talents.”

“That is true.”

Sam placed the slip of paper promising an hour-long blow job on the counter beside his bowl. Castiel opened the other fist. That sheet offered ‘the place to yourself so that you can plow your little brother as noisily as you like.’

“That's actually really generous, Cas.” Sam slid that gift certificate forward. “Thank you.”

Castiel picked up the piece of paper, popped it between his teeth and began chewing it. “I’ll just make a new friend at Secrets tonight.”

“You don't have to do that.”

Castiel smiled and kissed his forehead. “Happy birthday, Sammy.”

 

***

 

Garth hopped out of his beat up station wagon and strode across the parking lot. Dean and he exchanged an elaborate, and completely ridiculous handshake.

“Thanks, man. I owe you.”

“Not a problem.” Garth shoved his hands into his pockets. “No tests today. So, what's this impossible mission?”

Dean closed one eye and spoke the curse. “Birthday present.”

“For?”

This was getting less comfortable by the second. “Friend.”

Garth nodded.

“Good friend.”

“Describe.”

“Guy. Older.” Hot. Rich.

“Say it.”

Dean held open the glass door for a lady pushing a stroller. “Tall.”

Garth walked in after her. “Say it.”

Dean checked out one of the headless mannequins rather than meet Garth’s prying eyes. “Smart?”

“Dean.”

“What else do you want me to say? The point is, I don't know what to get him. I have, literally, never bought a birthday present in my life.”

“Alright. Keep calm.” Garth patted Dean’s shoulder. “What does he like?”

“No idea.”

“Not true. You know at least one thing he likes.”

Dean curled up his nose. “Football?”

“You, you idiot.”

He could refute it, but why bother. “So, what are you suggesting?”

“Pics.” The way Garth said it made clear he wasn’t talking about the kind you could take at the mall photo booth.

“Even if things were like that between us, which they aren’t, he already thinks I'm stuck on myself as it is.” Dean smoothed a hand over his hair. “And it’s not like that.”

 

***

 

“It's not much.”

Sam ran his palm down the cylinder like it was made of gold instead of cardboard. “I wasn’t expecting anything. Just you being here is …”

Dean’s eyes lowered and Sam pumped the brakes. He poured the roll of paper out of the tube and unfurled it over the table like a pirate with a treasure map. As soon as he got a good look at it, he broke into laughter.

Dean had given him a Tom Brady poster, but not of Sam’s erstwhile idol playing football or even suited up for the field. It was an UGG ad in which the Patriot’s quarterback sat on the floor of some rustic cabin in modern cowboy clothing, stunning eyes staring off in the distance.

“Lame, right?”

“No.” Sam rolled up the poster. “It's incredibly thoughtful. I might just put it over my bed.”

Dean chuckled and nodded. When he had repackaged Tom in his roll, Sam laid his hand in the center of the table, palm up. Dean looked at it and didn’t appear to be breathing.

The waiter came to both of their rescue. Sam sat back as the young man sat a small plate on the table. So far as he knew, neither of them had ordered a dollop of ice cream with a candle in the middle.

“It’s sugar free.” The waiter shared a knowing glance with Dean.

Nick was his name. Skinny, with a shock of fair hair that landed over his left eye too often to be accidental. He was an inch or so taller than Dean, not as tall as Sam. Early twenties, nerd glasses. Cute. He had brought Dean extra sour cream before he’d even asked for it.

Sam hadn’t meant to see Dean talking to Nick on his way back from the restroom. He wished he hadn’t seen Nick scribble something on a coaster. The only thing to do was pretend that he hadn’t.

“I asked, but they don't sing.”

Sam forced a smile at Dean’s wise-ass smirk.

“Does that mean I’ll get a private show later?” He asked, only half joking.

Dean sat back from the table while Nick cleared his dishes. They exchanged another little look that tied Sam’s intestines in knots. He could just as well have spent his birthday alone, in footie pajamas, drinking acid.

***

Sam still hadn’t started the engine, but Dean didn’t say anything about it. In the enclosed space, with the windows up, Sam’s cologne was louder than it had been all night. His breathing seemed deeper. Heat poured off of him and seeped into Dean’s pores.

“You wouldn’t believe what Castiel gave me.”

If anything could have turned him off, that was it. “How’s he doing?”

“Still … Castiel after all these years.”

Dean gazed out of his window and tried to roll it down. Of course, that doesn’t work when the car’s not on. Sam turned the key in the ignition bringing the engine to life. Dean opened his window and forced himself not to hang his head out of it like a dog.

“Do you have to get right back?”

Sam’s hand scorched the back of Dean’s neck. His finger stroked that spot just below his right ear before he tugged on the lobe. How on earth it was possible for that one little thing to make him hard was beyond comprehension.

Dean hadn't gotten laid in far too long, but this was ridiculous. Sam was barely touching him. His breath was just a suggestion of warmth and moisture on Dean’s left ear. His voice a whisper. “Come home with me.”

Dean opened the door and spilled himself onto the asphalt. “I need to … Be right back.”

He speed-walked like a jackass back into the restaurant, past their dopey waiter who smiled and asked, “Did you forget something?”

Dean hightailed to the bathroom and locked himself in a stall. He leaned back against the door, pinching below the head of his traitorous dick until it behaved.

 

***

 

Sam's phone lit up the dark just as he was climbing into bed. He picked it up, heart racing with hope. As late as it was, he would have dressed and driven just to spend the last hour of the day in Dean's company, whether Sam was allowed to touch him or not.

UNKNOWN: This is Nick. Your server from tonight  
UNKNOWN: Your brother gave me your number.  
UNKNOWN: He said maybe you'd be interested in getting together... doing something after I got off

Sam turned off his cell and sat it back on the night stand.

After a few minutes of laying in the dark with his eyes wide open and his chest aching like someone was carving out his heart, he hurled the phone across the room.

 

***

 

The edge of the loading dock was the perfect spot, but the alone time didn't last. Jo stood behind him for at least ten minutes before she spoke. If she thought he didn’t know she was there, he wasn’t going to shatter her illusion. So much for hiding out, enjoying a smoke, taking a break from the obnoxious merrymaking.

“Corrine looks beautiful, doesn't she?”

Girls.

Jo could fish for compliments all she wanted. She knew how she looked; she didn't need to hear him say it.

"Since when do you smoke?"

Dean held it up between two fingers. "Want some?"

Instead of abusing him with disgusted squealing and a lecture on lung cancer, she accepted the thing and had a drag. Then she puffed her exhaust up into the night sky and handed it back.

"I take it you're having fun?” She eased down beside him, smoothing her skirt down, resting her head on his shoulder, smelling like Tahitian Sunrise.

They shared a shower. Otherwise the scent would have been a sweet, tropical mystery. “Define fun."

"You should dance,” Jo said.

"No one wants to see that.”

Her arm snaked around his. "Garth is tearing it up in there. You should see him.”

"Oh. I saw it.”

"He's good.”

Dean nodded. He actually was.

"You think Shawnna taught him?

"I’m pretty sure that's racist, but I'm not sure against who.”

Jo laughed and pressed her face into his sleeve. Dean glanced down at her and had another puff.

"Are you thinking about your mom?”

"Among other things." He sighed and kissed Jo’s forehead.

It was no secret how Jo felt about what Dean was thinking about. She did not want to know the details, so he spared her.  
Sam had asked and Dean couldn't force himself to spit out the word No, regardless of how much he ought to.  
His will was strong, but no mortal could withstand the longing, naked curiosity, and that look on Sam's face plucking at his heart like strings on an electric guitar. Dean had said, "Sure, okay," immediately wished he could swallow back the words, and hadn't stopped checking the weather forecast down there since.

"You know who should dance?" Dean asked. "You, with this guy.”

Jo’s dorky date had been standing in the doorway watching them, almost the whole time Jo had been out there. She stood, brushed her hands over her poofy skirt and slipped back into the building with Kyle.

Dean flicked his smoke into a puddle.

 

***

 

Sam’s mother raised her glass for a toast. “I just want to say, what you and Dean have accomplished with his grades is spectacular. Isn't it, John? If he keeps up like this, he's going to be able go anywhere he wants.”

“That's happening anyway.” John downed the whiskey in his glass and helped himself to another.

There was never liquor on the dinner table when Sam was a kid. Wine on special occasions, but ...

“Dean, would you pour me some more juice, please?” Jo held out her glass.

Dean complied without a word.

Sam’s mother made no attempt to keep the glee off her face. “Ruby said you're planning to head down next week, just as the kids get out.”

“Yeah.” Sam took a breath before he dropped the bombshell. “And I, uh, I've asked Dean to come with me.”

John slammed his glass on the table. The man himself looked like he was well on his way to cracking a tooth. “Hell, no.”

Dean kept his eyes on his plate with impeccable dedication even as Jo’s head whipped around to scowl at him.

Sam’s mother rested a hand on her husband’s arm. “We were under the impression that Dean would join us in Cape Cod, and then attend the football camps your father picked out, but ... of course, it's your choice, Dean. Right, John?”

“Absolutely fucking not.”

Sam waited for Dean to say something. When he didn’t speak, Sam explained, “It’s just a weekend. He hasn’t met Luna yet. Hasn’t seen the ocean in a while, so I thought--”

“No. Just no, Sam.”

“John, what can it hurt?” Sam’s mother asked. “For a few days.”

John searched Dean’s face with narrowed eyes. Once it was clear he wouldn’t find what he was looking for, he tucked the whiskey bottle under his arm and stormed away from the table.

Since Dean was clearly having a moment with his plate, Jo transferred her evil eye to Sam. “Is Castiel going, too?” She forked a carrot from Dean’s plate and sneered as if she had branded him. “Where is he, anyway?”

It was anyone’s guess what Dean had confided in her. At very least, obviously, his hatred for Cas. She seemed to be wallowing in the tight-lipped discomfort on Dean’s face.

Sam cleared his throat and met her dark eyes. “Do you know what a mariage _de_ convenance is?”

“Where one of you is using the other one?”

“No. It’s … a matter of convenience. Nothing more.” Sam struggled to keep his expression neutral. “He needs some support and I … Marriage is a good way to provide that for a little while.”

“But you did used to date him, right?” Jo asked. “Or did you guys just fuck, like, for convenience?”

“Jo!” Sam’s mother threw her fork onto her plate.

“Are you using protection when you fuck people other than Dean?”

“JoAnna!”

She pointed at Sam like he had the plague. “You want him to infect Dean with something? Who knows what kind of STIs and --”

Their mother stood, with every bit as much anger as their father had done, and dragged Jo by the arm to the kitchen with the brat protesting the entire way.

In the midst of the madness, Dean stared at his food.

“Are you okay?”

His eyes flicked up and lowered again. “Tired.”

"If you don't want to go..."

Dean sighed. "I wish you guys would all chill the fuck out sometimes."

Sam nodded, twiddled his fingers on the table, then stopped them. He performed his best impression of chilling the fuck out, while his insides clenched with fear that Dean would change his mind and force him to face his demons alone.


	32. Chapter 32

It wasn't Sam's fault he was so close. Although he probably could have afforded first class tickets, which would have helped. Separate rows, classes, flights: anything to keep his elbows and shoulders from rubbing up against Dean’s. His knees jutted out way ahead, but encroached into Dean's space, too. Sure, the sasquatch apologized every time and shifted in his seat to give more room, but apologies weren't going fix the problem.

Sam's size was Nature's doing, but he was to blame for his cologne, since he'd put that shit on. The purpose of cologne is to fuck with people and make them horny. That scent never failed to blend with Sam's sweat and create this heady cocktail. How the hell was Dean supposed to not react to that?

But he was only half hard, since there were other matters oppressing his mind. In any case, the next few hours would be torture that ends badly.

His fingers did a jig on his thigh as he hummed some melody he couldn't place.

“You still nervous?” Sam's expression was more bitch smugness than concern.

Dean snatched his hand away. “M’fine.”

“You’ll see. It’s no big deal.”

“Spoken like a man with a flying license. You got a flying license, Sam? No? Parachute? No? Then, shut the fuck up.”

Guys scurried around outside like there was some urgent, last-minute thing they'd almost forgotten to do to the plane. It didn't bolster Dean's faith.

“Relax. You’re safer in the sky than on the hi —-”

“Ladies and gentlemen.” Before Dean called Sam on the bullshit statistics, a falsely sweet female voice cut through the crap music.

Dean couldn’t have cared less what she was saying. He shut the window because who wanted visual confirmation they were leaving the ground? He laughed out loud at her insistence on the seat belt. What the fuck was that going to do other than keep your dead meat strapped in place while your head went sailing into the next row? Helpful to the cleanup crew, maybe.

Dean shoved Sam’s hand from the arm rest. Sam responded by leaning close enough for Dean to lick his ear. Which he didn’t, but he could have.

“Are you… Is that Elgar?”

“Shut up.”

What Sam needed to do was get lost before Dean tried to hump the smell of him. Breathing through his mouth for the next three hours would make the flight even more awesome. Why in hell did he agree to this?

“You’re terrified, aren’t you?” For such a smart guy, Sam was incredibly dense at times. “Do you want to hold my hand?”

“Wanna bite me?”

As if someone had died and made him a kindergarten teacher, Sam opened a plastic pouch and spread a red blanket over Dean’s legs.

“What do I look like, a two-year … oh.”

A giant hand slid under the blanket.

“Dude. Stop it.”

Months ago, Dean had declared the monkey business over. As much as he wanted to make like a monkey every time he saw Sam, there was too much crazy shit going on in his head. Not the least of it was the growing certainty they were brothers. Half-brothers, but it's not like you can half-fuck a guy.

As gross as that was, the real reason Dean couldn’t let Sam touch him was the dream.

 

_Sam. Perfect as always_

_On his knees, taking Dean’s dick_

_Dean’s hands curled in his hair, holding him there_

_Lip to sac_

_Those filthy sweet choking noises_

_Sam shirtless_

_Spiked collar_

_Hands bound behind his back_

_Moaning_

_Hazel eyes wide and glassy_

_Then panicked_

_Begging, while Dean held him there for a second longer_

_Sam struggling_

_After a minute more_

_Sam thrashing_

_Two minutes_

_Sam convulsing, so pretty_

_Muscles in his throat fluttering against the head of Dean’s dick until he came so hard, with his head thrown back, groaning out his pleasure._

_Sam’s jaw slack, body lax._

_Dean releases him and he slumps to the floor._

_Cum and spit oozing from his open mouth_

_Not creamy white_

_Black as sin._

_And Dean feels nothing_

_not remorse, not fear, not sorrow_

_He blinks down at Sam’s smeared face and puts his dick away._

 

Every time he had that dream, Dean awoke covered in sweat and sticky with cum. He’d slink away from the bed, so as not to wake Jo, showering long and hot without getting clean.

It was only a dream. But the thought of being with Sam made his stomach turn even as his dick twitched. Dean bit back a groan and jacked himself rough and fast to end at least part of the torment.

 

***

Dean was pretending. He always ground his teeth when he was asleep. It got so bad sometimes that Sam tickled his chin. Then his mouth fell open, and he snored like an old man. Sam had suggested he have his adenoids checked out, but the likelihood of that happening was low.

There was a book open in Sam's lap, although most of the time his eyes were on Dean’s right hand. It had emerged from the blanket clean, but the briny scent of his release made Sam's mouth water. He would have spent the entire flight sucking Dean’s fingers, or with his face between Dean's thighs. Sam breathed deep and sighed out loud. He’d be thirty soon and Castiel was right; it’s a creepy, desperate, old guy who chases a child and can’t take no for an answer.

Dean was half his age, for Christ's sake.

He was also so close.

Sam pressed their shoulders together and tried to let that inadequate contact be enough when what he wanted was to devour the boy. Or to be consumed by him. The logistics didn't matter.

As the plane descended Dean tugged at his ear and Sam dug two sticks of Juicy Fruit from his computer bag. In a momentary lapse of self-control, he scraped the thin, silver packet along the back of Dean’s hand down to the blunt nail of his pointer finger.

When there was no protest, Sam slid it back to his wrist, swallowing back the desire to retrace that trail with his tongue. After another pass, he turned to see if the kid was still faking sleep.

Emerald eyes smoldered back at him for a moment before Dean turned away.

Sam gave him the gum and slipped his own stick between his lips. “It helps.”

 

***

  
Luggage claimed, car rented, they dropped everything off at the hotel before heading over to Ruby’s. Cookie cutter houses lined the streets behind well-kept palm trees. Sam parked in front of one with a white Honda hybrid in the driveway.

Ruby looked like her Facebook pictures, but they didn't do her justice. Online, she gave the impression of being a cute, little MILF. In reality, she was crazy hot, even in a pantsuit: a tiny, curvy thing with huge brown eyes and lips that could make a man thirsty. 

He held his breath, waiting for Ruby to leap into Sam’s arms, for the two of them to start necking and start part two of their happily ever after.

What actually happened was that Ruby froze in the door frame while Sam stood statue-still on the porch. They looked at each other like they couldn't decide whether they were strangers, old lovers, or what. Already acquainted with Sam's rabbit in the brush look, Dean stuck out his hand and said his name.

Ruby shook and let them inside, no-nonsense heels clicking over the tiles as she led the way to a living room out of a catalog. Gray paint, gray furniture, huge windows, fireplace. In the corner, the toys were arranged so neatly they must belong to some robot kid. Dean folded his arms and checked out the pictures on the mantle. Ruby turned to Sam and asked, "Are you two together?

Sam shook his head.

"Not that it's my business,” Ruby said. “I... She's upstairs. I'll ..."

She disappeared and Sam's eyes rolled in his head like he was about to keel over. Dean crossed the room, took his arm and led him to a chair. He knelt between his knees not-not thinking anything of the position, but pushing his arousal aside to be present for Sam. "Hey."

“I'm not cut out for this.”

“What?”

“I never wanted kids. I’m not…”

Now? Sam saved this breakdown for this moment?

“Listen. You’re going to be fine. Okay? I swear to God, if she bites you, I’ll bite her back.”

Wide, marble eyes peered into Dean's face. Sam nodded just as Ruby returned with the pretty, dark-haired girl whose birth and growth Dean had studied on Facebook. He rose and smiled while Sam gripped the armrests and tried to stand. It didn’t quite happen, so, he sat there like a constipated king, which was a better first impression than a teetering, humongous fucker who might topple any moment and crush them all.

"Luna, these are mommy's friends, Sam and Dean."

Dean couldn’t blame her for not laying the truth right out there. Friends was a good, neutral start.

The little girl shrank back, holding on to her mother's jacket. Without thinking, Dean dropped to one knee, like he was the king’s delegate, and held out his hand. Luna looked up to her mother for permission or endorsement.

“I’m Dean,” he said. “That one’s Sam. He's huge and harmless.”

Ruby grinned and nodded. Sam still hadn’t hoisted his butt from the chair.

“Hello, Mr. Dean.” If Luna voice wasn’t the sweetest, cutest thing Dean had ever heard. Like cherubs ringing dinner bells.

“Just Dean is fine.”

Luna peered up at her mother again.

“I prefer her to use titles to address adults.”

“I’m not a mister,” he said.

“You and Sam are clearly close.”

What the hell did she mean by that?

“For him to bring you here, now.”

Of course, Dean knew that, but a surge of warmth passed through him to hear Ruby acknowledge it.

“How’s Uncle?”

Dean nodded. Luna dropped her tiny hand into his palm. She might as well have plucked his heart from his chest, put it on a chain and wrapped it around her bird neck. He flicked a thumb at the man-sized dollhouse in the play corner. "Who lives in there? The queen of England?"

Luna turned her nose up to her mother who laughed.

“No?” Dean asked. “Beyonce?”

Luna giggled. “You’re funny.”

“What? Queens got to live somewhere.” He followed her over, walking on his knees.

“Honey, remember how I told you that someone special named Sam wanted you to have your house?” Ruby called after them. “This is Sam.”

Luna looked back at Sam.

“What do you say?”

“Thank you, Uncle Sam.”

Ruby smiled. "No, sweetheart. This is… “

Dean shook his head at her. The timing wasn’t quite right.

Ruby narrowed her eyes, but relented. “I have some work ... If you need anything, I'm just..." Then she left them alone again.

 

“You know, Luna is a cool name,” Dean said.

“It means I’m the moon.” She combed her baby’s hair. “Nana and Pop-pop call me Lulu.”

“Could I call you Lulu?”

“If you want to. Can I call you DeDe?”

“Uncle Dean is better.”

By the time Sam lumbered over with his hands in his pockets and shoulders up to his ears, Luna had shown Dean how to dress and feed her best baby.

“Hi, Luna," Sam said.

Dean burped the baby doll and handed it to Sam who gawked like it was made of moon rocks. Luna went on feeding her other doll, Daisy, without paying her father any attention.

Sam had that look: crumbling into pieces right before breaking into tears.

"You know what. Why don't we all go for a walk?” Dean suggested. “I'm going to ask your mom if that's okay, all right?"

Maybe the couple of moments alone would help with the ice.

He wandered down the hall, past more framed photographs of Luna and knocked on the open door to Ruby’s office. “Hey.”

She swiveled around in her chair.

“Didn't mean to interrupt.”

“No problem.” She took a few seconds to inspect him, not suggestive, but more than vaguely interested. “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah. No. It's great.”

“I thought it would be easier if I wasn't in the way, you know,” Ruby explained. “Give them some space to get to know each other.”

Dean nodded. He would have done it differently. Would have given Luna a chance to see her parents interacting and then, once she was comfortable having Sam around, he would have sprung the news on her. But it's not like he was some kind of child psychologist. One thing was clear; the way his parents had done it was fucked up and wrong.

“We were wondering if we could take her for a walk?” As he spoke, Dean’s eyes landed on a series of photos of Luna at the zoo.

After he'd lifted a frame, it occurred to him that he should ask permission. He glanced over his shoulder in apology.

“It’s okay.” Ruby stood and took his side, close enough for him to smell her perfume. Far enough that it wasn’t weird.

“Cute kid.”

Ruby smiled. “She's a lot like Sam. Right down to the dietary restrictions.”

“No shit?” Dean chuckled at Sam’s psychedelic sensitivity to everything but lettuce. “Does she wig out?”

“Oh, my God. Don't test it,” Ruby warned. “I had never seen anything like it before Sam. His spawn is, like, ten times worse. Maybe because she’s little.”

“Spawn?” Dean could laugh or cry at that word. “That's what you call her?”

“Spawn of Sam. Yeah.” Ruby snickered. “Only when she gets like that. And only to my parents.”

“Spawn of Sam, huh?” He had to admit that was funny.

“So, how do you two know each other?”

Dean picked up a photo of Luna petting a goat. “Uh, football.” He cleared the catch from his throat.

“Oh! Is Sam coaching?”

“No. His dad.”

“And Sam is helping with the team?”

Jesus. This chick had a lot of questions. “No. He ... does some tutoring.”

“Oh.” She nodded. “Well, that's terrific. He seems happy. Is he?”

Dean put down the frame. “You’d have to ask him.”

“Did he tell you how she got her name?” Ruby had that ‘if only’ and ‘days gone by’ look old people get sometimes.

“I didn’t think he would know that. I mean, you named her, right?”

“Oh, he knows.”

Dean nodded, hooked, lined and sunk with curiosity. “So, you're cool with the walk?”

“Sure.” Ruby straightened the frame. “Sam has my number, if anything comes up.”

By the time he’d returned from Ruby's office, Sam was still standing in the same place watching Luna cook stew on her kiddie kitchen.

“All right, Lulu. Your mom said yes, but we have to clean up first,” Dean said.

She stuffed her tiny paw into Dean's and gave a surprising amount of detail about her neighbors: the names of pets, the hair colors of the women. 

“When I was little,” Dean said. “I lived with just my mommy, too, like you. Alone moms are kind of like superheroes, don’t you think? They got a big job.”

Luna took a moment to think about it and nodded.

Sam looked sick. It hadn't been intended as a dig, but a statement of fact. Anybody raising a kid alone was a badass. Dean stopped walking and stooped in front of Luna. "Hey, Lulu. You know what?"

She shook her head, eyes wide for whatever was coming.

"Did you know some people call Sam Daddy? Can you believe that?"

Luna frowned up at Sam.

"I know, right? But it's true. Even I do it, sometimes. Right, Daddy?"

Sam blinked before turning his eyes to Luna.

The little girl checked Sam out again and then twisted her mouth at Dean. "Do you think I should I call him Daddy, too? Or just Sam?"

"Oh, I definitely think you should call him Daddy.” Dean smiled up at Sam. “What do you think?"

Sam crouched in front of his daughter and tapped on her tummy. "I'd like that a lot."

 

***

 

Dean stepped out of his room a few seconds after Sam. They were supposed to meet in the lobby, but stood staring at each other across the hall, Dean’s eyes roving over Sam for a moment before he looked towards the elevator and scratched his neck.

Sam drank him in like a man in the desert, unwilling to apologize for having his fill.  
Faded Pink Floyd T-shirt and jeans ripped at one knee. Someone - not Sam - had replaced the half-dead Chucks with skater sneakers. Dean had showered and probably not done more than rough his hands over his hair, leaving it a damp mess. Sam wanted to shove him, face-down, onto the nearest mattress.

Dean looked down at his clothes. "Should I--"

"You're perfect." Sam huffed at his involuntary word choice.

Dean lowered his face. Sam couldn’t tell whether he blushed, but he hoped so. Dean didn’t blush often, but when he did, it was a glorious blossom beneath his smattering of freckles the thought of which made Sam smile. 

They stood on opposite ends of the elevator, Dean looking straight ahead. There wasn’t a force on earth that could have kept Sam’s eyes off of him. He jammed his hands into his pockets to be sure he kept them to himself. If his pointer finger traced his shaft and it made him a dirty old man, so be it. For a few floors, other patrons of the hotel rode between them. Then the elevator bell dinged. Sam sighed, pressed his back against the wall and made space for Dean to exit first.

Once they'd ordered dinner, Sam rested his elbows on the table and his chin in his folded hands. “How are you doing?”

Dean dipped white bread in olive oil and answered with his mouth full. “I'm good. How are you?”

“I mean... I don't ask because I don't want to be a nuisance. It's been six months. You don't talk about your mother at all.”

Dean focused an inordinate amount of attention on wiping his hands with the cloth napkin. “What do you want me to say?”

“I know you miss her.”

“Every day.”

“And that you want answers,” Sam said. “... about the guy.”

Dean speared a tomato on the end of his fork. “See? You know everything.”

“You don't want to --”

“Let’s talk about Luna.”

“Fine.” Sam had a drink of his water.

“Ruby said I should ask you why she named her that.”

Sam's brow shot up. “You and Ruby were talking?”

“Is that not allowed?”

Sam drained his glass.

“We weren't talking about your dick. Although, I guess, we could swap tales.”

“Not funny, Dean.”

“All my exes--” Just as quickly, he stopped singing and stuffed his mouth with more bread.

There had to be something Sam could say that would cut through the solid wall of air between them. Dean did not belong on the list with Castiel and Ruby. If Sam could reach across the table, grab a fistful of his shirt and drag him into a kiss, Dean would have to admit how much he missed touching, tasting, coming apart inside of Sam.

“You know, she’s still got a thing for you.”

“What?”

“At least from the way she talks, sounds like it.” Dean shrugged and swallowed the food he'd stored in his cheek to make that announcement. “So, what's with the hippy name? You worship crystals in college?”

Sam forced a laugh. “I went, with a friend, to a full moon gathering.”

“Okay.” Dean withheld his likely low opinion of that. “Werewolf, this friend?”

“He was a psych major. So, close enough. It was just a bunch of kids way out in the woods, drumming and dancing, smoking weed. Anyway, Ruby was there. She sprained her ankle on the hike back and since I was ... me, it was everyone's consensus that she should ride my back down the mountain ... We were pretty much inseparable after that.”

“You know, I had the point at full moon.” Dean sat back in his chair and turned his pouting face away from Sam.

“We got married under the full moon, too. Her parents hated it. Couldn’t understand why anyone would have a ceremony at night.” It was extraneous information at that point, but if Dean was sulking because he was jealous, that meant part of him still wanted Sam.

He would have gone on talking about his wedding all night if it would make Dean come around. Instead of declaring his revived love and affection, Dean asked, “You smoked weed?”

“No.”

 

***

 

Sam lay in his bed, doing what he did at home: watching mindless TV to keep his mind off the kid. But back in his apartment, Dean wasn’t right across a hallway making Sam’s skin burn. He closed his eyes, hand resting on his lower abdomen, fighting the urge to touch himself for as long as he could.

At the knock on the door, his heart choked. He dragged the sheet from the bed to wrap around his waist as he jogged to answer it.

There he was. The kid had come to him.

Dean stood there with a blanket over his arm and a sheepish expression, looking for all the world like Charlie Brown’s Linus. It took every ounce of restraint in Sam’s body not to sweep the boy up in his arms and kiss all that worry and uncertainty off his face. “Everything okay?”

“Just…” Dean lowered his gaze. “My sleep’s been fucked since ... Can I hang out a little bit?”

Sam stepped aside and closed the door behind him. It would be wrong to celebrate the kid’s distress. “You want to… they got Nazis on the History Channel.”

Usually, Dean would be psyched to watch Hitler get his ass handed to him. He shook his head and slumped on the sofa. Sam sat beside him, careful to give him space. “What’s going on?”

“I haven’t… slept alone in… Jo’s been…”

He stopped talking and Sam filled in his own goddamn blanks. He shifted to the side, putting another foot between them, gripping tight to his sheet to keep from wrapping his hands around Dean’s throat.

“Just sleeping,” Dean said. “I needed…” He dug the heel of his hand so deep into his eye it looked like he would jam the thing out of the socket.

He seemed younger than ever and smaller. Sam started to touch his arm, but kept his lecherous hand to himself. Comforting Dean was complicated and Sam had ulterior motives. “It’s okay. I mean… Do you want to sleep in the bed? Just sleep. I swear, I won’t … Or you can just take it.”

“No. I don’t mean to be a pain in the ass.”

Sam grinned at the unintentional pun. Dean caught it and chuckled, even if just a little.

“Here is good. Thanks.”

“Bed is better,” Sam said. “I’ll sleep here if you want.”

Dean hung his head “I just…”

Sam could no longer keep from wrapping his arm around him. Dean tensed for a moment and then relaxed. Let Sam hold him and stroke down his hair and his back, Sam’s rising internal temperature be damned. He started out humming, but somehow the words forced themselves out of his mouth in a breathy imitation of singing

“When I wake up  
Well, I know I’m gonna be  
I’m gonna be the man who’s waking up with you.”

Dean leaned back and looked up, skepticism plain in his furrowed brow.

Sam shrugged. “It was on some movie I watched tonight.”

“Good song.”

“I would walk 500 miles.” Sam's singing voice was even worse than Dean's, but the kid blinked up at him so Sam sang anyway, so softly that it was more wind than melody. “I would walk 500 more. Just to be --”

“Stop. Please.” Dean sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry I came over here. I got to get my shit together.”

Before Dean reached the door, Sam stepped up against him, arms firm in both hands. His back became rigid, but Sam held him to his chest, closed his eyes and whispered, “Let me take care of you … Just a little.”

While the Allies vanquished the Axis powers, Sam and Dean lay in a tangle of limbs and ignored erections.

“Are you happy?” Dean’s breathed the question against Sam’s throat, his speech slurred with exhaustion.

Sam closed his arms around him and answered, “Right now, yeah. I’m happy.”

 

***

 

Fingers tugged at the shell of his ear and he kept his eyes shut to avoid startling them away. The caresses stopped anyway and Dean opened his eyes. In the dim sliver of sunlight that broke between the blackout curtains, marble eyes stared back at him.

Either his hard-on was back or hadn’t subsided. If he shifted his hips, he could press it against Sam’s thigh. Sam would lay still, let Dean grind against him and bring himself off. God knew Dean needed it, and if God didn’t understand, Sam did, because his wood was pressed against Dean’s stomach. As always, he'd slept nude while Dean wore a t-shirt and a pair of boxers. One layer of fabric separated him from Sam sliding hot against his skin.

“Sleep okay?”

Dean nodded. Better than he had since

“Am I at least as good a teddy bear as my sister?”

Dean chuckled and elbowed him. As good as Jo was, she would always be a placeholder.

Sam kissed his forehead. “Is it dreams?”

Here was the topic that could shrivel his dick in seconds. Dean rolled over and sat up on the side of the bed.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sam moved so he could stroke the small of Dean’s back. “You can tell me anything, Dean. I want to help you. I want to--”

“I didn't dream anything last night.”

“So, I’m better than Jo?” There was a smile on Sam’s voice, but he wasn't kidding.

“Stop, man.”

How could he be such a fuck up that he had not only come between siblings, but (possibly) his own brother and sister?

 

***

 

Sam twisted the handle all the way left for cold. He hissed in a breath and let the frigid needles slice his skin. His shoulders hunched, goose flesh burst all over his body. After five minutes his erection hadn’t even begun to wilt.

He turned the water to warm, shut his eyes and in the immortal words of his little brother, pounded one out.

 

***

 

Dean was already sitting in front of a heaping helping of eggs, sausage, and hash browns when Sam came around the corner into the common room. His damp hair clung to his face. The plain white T-shirt was two sizes too small causing his biceps, pecs and the outline of every can in his six-pack to strain the fabric. The jeans were looser, leaving his greatest asset to the active imaginations in the room, but there was no mistaking how long and powerful those legs were. Most of the females in the joint forgot their waffles in favor of watching him enter.

Dean did not think about the fact that he could have nailed that specimen of masculinity last night. He did not inwardly gloat that his fingers, his dick, and his tongue had been inside of that pretty mouth and that pert ass on numerous occasions. Even when Sam sat his plate down across from him, Dean kept his eyes on his food and didn't think about fucking Sam.

“This seat taken?” Sam parked it and asked, “Recognize the shirt?”

On second look, it was a dingy, threadbare thing he must have forgotten at Sam’s ages ago.

Dean nodded towards the thirty-something, realtor-looking chicks at the table across the room. “Think you got a fan club.”

Generous to a fault, Sam smiled over. “You want to tell them or should I?”

Dean chuckled and shook his head at Sam Winchester: consummate (SAT translation: badass) heartbreaker.

 

***

 

As they approached the house, Luna’s little head popped up in the window. Dean laughed and hopped out before Sam cut the engine. The girl flew out of the front door. By the time Ruby and Sam had joined them on the walkway, she'd latched onto his leg with Dean patting out a rhythem on her back.

Sam stood behind him and asked, “So, have you ladies decided what you wanted to do today?”

“Actually, Dean,” Ruby said. “I was wondering whether it would be alright with you if we…”

“’Course,” Dean answered once he caught her drift. “Of course. Yeah. No problem at all.”

He tried to pry Luna's arms from his leg and she clung even tighter. “You said we would play with the dollhouse today.”

“It’s going to have to be another day, sweetheart.” Dean kept his voice light as he didn’t feel.

He couldn’t blame Ruby for not wanting him around. There wasn’t a single fairy tale that featured Prince Charming’s ex-boyfriend. Jealousy coursed through his veins like molten lead where it cooled, hardened and splintered into a thousand jagged pieces.

Ruby pulled Luna away despite the girl's complaints. Dean held out his hand to Sam for the keys. “Joy ride.”

They jingled, even as Sam grimaced like he was being force-fed bad sushi. “I don't--”

“It's cool, Sam.”

“Maybe we can all meet up for dinner,” Ruby offered.

“Have a good day, kid.” Dean patted Luna’s head and made his way to the car.

He waved to her again before he climbed in and drove off without looking back.

 

***

 

The car turned the corner.

“He’s a big boy, Sam.” Ruby touched his arm. “You’re leaving tomorrow. I thought it would be good for Luna to have a family day.”

This was the presumptuous side of Ruby that Sam had always yearned to strangle. He turned around to tell her so, but their little girl was in tears.

“Luna,” Ruby said. “Your daddy is here to visit you. Is this what you want him to see? A big crybaby?”

Sam knelt in front of his daughter. Her cheeks were blotched red and streaked with tears. “You like Dean, don’t you?”

She nodded, sniffling.

“And you wanted him to come with us today?”

Luna hummed in agreement.

“Me, too,” Sam said and lowered his voice even further. “And sometimes, I want ... so badly it makes me cry.”

“You cry?” Her caramel eyes grew saucer-wide.

“Sometimes. Sometimes, it’s the only thing you can do. But other times, even if you can’t have exactly what you want, you can get something else that’s okay, instead. So, while I know your mom and I are no substitutes for Dean, we would love to have a fun day with you. Then, we’ll have something good to tell him when he gets back.”

“He’s coming back?”

Sam nodded. “I promise. That sound good?”

This time it was Luna who nodded and slung her tiny arms around his neck.


	33. Chapter 33

The Subaru Outback was a dad car, but it had a little get up and go. Dean got in it and got gone.

For the first hour, he drove like his mother used to do: too fast with no destination. He took exits on instinct alone, turned up the radio, wound down the windows, and sang along loud enough to drown out the motor and the stone-cold rejection.

Goddamned Desperado came on the classic rock station. The last time Dean heard this song, he’d been riding with Sam. He chewed the hell out of his lip, forbidding himself to even think about what they were doing: Sam and his family. Ruby was allowed to want him to herself. Luna deserved a day without Dean in her face.

Your prison is walking

Through this world all alone

Dean stopped singing and changed the station. It took a while, but once he saw the sign, his destination was clear.

 

***

Sam wrestled with the beach umbrella for ten minutes before it stood upright in the sand, casting smoldering shade over the picnic basket. Luna traipsed closer to the water than Sam liked, but Ruby assured him that the little girl was used to the ocean and wouldn’t take chances. While Ruby hiked back to the car for something she’d forgotten, Sam watched over a child for the first time in his life.

At first, Luna flitted around a mob of small boys burying something. Then she collected shells, dropping her treasures into the purple bucket that hung from her wrist. Once she scampered towards the hotels and tourist district, Sam shouted after her.

She either didn’t hear him or didn’t care. He dropped what he was doing and ran, narrowly avoiding trampling a few sunbathers. When he caught up to Luna, he lifted her in his arms and gave her a tiny shake, winded, not from the running but with worry. “Hey. I called you.”

Her big eyes glinted in the sun and she pointed down at the sand. He followed her wiggling finger in time to see a blue crab scurry into a hole.

“When I call you, you have to come. Just like you would for your mom, okay?”

She nodded and Sam carried her back toward their umbrella. Ruby waved and pinned her hair up into a loose bun.

Luna instructed Sam to, “Wave to Mommy.”

So, he did.

****

Dean spent his day in silence, with Slim Jims, on a rock. Everything around him buzzed, croaked, chirped and gurgled with life. The wind rustled the leaves. An occasional plane broke the clear, blue sky. Otherwise, he'd hiked deep enough into the Everglades that there were no other signs of humanity. It was the perfect place to suffer in peace.

The last time he was in the woods, he'd been with Sam, naked and coiled together like a pair of snakes, on the banks of Doggett Creek.

A crocodile or alligator - some big fucking lizard - dragged its lazy ass up onto the bank a few yards away from him. It didn’t give him any attitude and he sure as fuck didn’t mess with it. Its presence just reminded Dean, it wasn’t given that he'd return to the car alive, or that he would find his way back. Every moment, each breath could be his last and it didn't matter. In the grand scheme of things, nothing did.

And that's why everything was so precious.

The idea struck like lightning, without the sizzle and the bacon smell. He blinked and said out lout, "Shit. Yeah, of course," startling a flock of birds into flight.

He hiked back, arriving at the car in time to avoid getting lost down there in the deep green. His phone was in the glove compartment, where he'd left it. Sam had been texting and calling the entire day, no doubt convinced that Dean wasn’t responding because he was pissed. He typed back:

DS: I’m fine. There by 2

The phone rang and Dean let the call go to voicemail, not because he was pissed. The silence was working for him and he wasn't ready to break it. When Sam called again, he turned off the phone.

 

***

 

Sam looked down at the screen. Call declined. He didn't blame Dean. At least he was okay.

“So, are you going to feed me a bunch of bullshit, too?” Ruby reclined on a chaise lounge chair on her deck, swirling a cocktail in her right hand. “What is the deal with you and Dean?”

“He's just this kid.” Sam shook his head to rattle loose the right words. “My dad has taken him on, you know ... You ought to see him play. Crazy potential.”

She removed the little umbrella from the glass and sucked it. “Uh-huh.”

“What?”

“You like him.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah.” Sam searched for his tonic water. “Sure. Of course.”

“Let me rephrase that. You want to fuck him.”

Sam damn near drowned on air. Ruby stood and clapped his back.

“I didn't say you would. He's young, but there's something about him, isn't there?”

“I don't know what you’re --”

“What is he, 19?” she asked. “One of those old souls. I'll tell you what, Luna does not open up like that with everyone. Sam, are you okay?”

Sam nodded, although it was a gross exaggeration. Okay was something else. Ruby had sniffed him out like a fifty-year-old Scotch. Sam was not okay, he was light-headed. Once he'd settled down on the side of his own seat, she mounted a second attack. “So, you’re just not going to tell me?”

“He’s on my dad’s --”

“Yeah, he mentioned that, and you’re teaching him to read.”

“He didn’t say that.”

“Something. I don’t know.” Ruby waved away the comment. “Anyway, there is no way you brought some random kid from your dad’s team all the way down here, let him meet Luna at the same time you do … Do I look like I just hatched?”

“He’d never been to Florida,” Sam said with his eyes, voice and the lie aimed at the floor. “He’s a good kid.”

“Can it, Sam. You look at him like you’re starving.” Ruby put down her drink and sat next to him. “You may forget, but I know you. Maybe he doesn’t see it, but I’m not fooled.”

Sam stared at the foreign-familiar hand on his knee. He sat with his spine stiff, aware of his breath, like this was a first date, or an interrogation for a crime he'd planned and perpetrated on camera.

Ruby elbowed him. “Come on. Don’t be such a prude. Hell, if he was ten years older and had a job, I’d go for him myself.”

Sam met her eyes and let himself laugh, if only a little. When she dropped her head to his shoulder, an old reflex caused him to kiss her forehead. She wrapped her arm around his, shattering the silence, but only with a whisper. “How are your folks?”

“You’ve seen my mom.” Sam didn’t have a word to say about his father.

“She calls me every two days. How do I make it stop?”

“Move to Kansas. Then, she’ll be at your door every two days.”

“I love your mom, but no, thanks.”

“She was so... “ Sam fumbled for the right word, “happy about Luna. I guess she didn’t expect this would happen for me.”

“You know, all kinds of families have kids these days. Look at Rosie O’Donnell.”

“Who is that?”

Ruby sat up and glared at him. “Still under a rock, I see.”

“Children weren’t on my agenda. I’m glad you did it, though. It was the right choice. She was.”

Ruby nodded and laid down with her head in his lap and her legs curled behind her. Sam’s hand hovered, unsure where to land.

“And you?”

“Me?” Sam asked.

“Your mom was so happy,” Ruby said. “How was it for you, when you found out? I didn’t expect it would take so long for you to meet her.”

Sam’s mouth fell open, but no sound followed the burst of air that escaped.

“You don’t have to explain. I’m just saying.”

Sam let the hand fall. Or it fell of its own accord. Her hair was soft as ever. He ran his fingers through it like he would stroke a cat, or a former lover and a dear friend who had insinuated herself back into his life and his space, as if they'd never parted at all.

“How are your parents?”

“Driving me nuts.” Ruby's laugh caused a tiny tremor on the deck chair. “When you gonna remarry, Ruby? Luna needs siblings. What about your eggs? If I hear anything else about my eggs I'm going to fucking crack. Yes, it was intentional.”

Sam chuckled and rolled a ringlet of her hair into a little bun behind her ear like he used to back when things were simpler between them and based on a fantasy.

“You do, though, right?” Ruby’s fingers curled around his calf. “Like him.”

Sam smiled even though in the dark and in that position, he was invisible. “You're turning into your mother.”

Ruby laughed. “Low blow, Winchester.”

 

***

If he had driven directly, Dean would have arrived at the hotel by 2 AM, as promised, but the exit sign for Miami Beach might as well have been in neon. He drove into town like a moth.

He sat on the boardwalk, trying to eat an ice cream cone faster than it melted. The waves rolled and roared behind him. Swarms of beautiful people filled the streets, dressed to be seen and walking to be wanted. Among them, Dean was a ragamuffin. Dust in the ocean breeze.

Free

He never had to go back to the hotel, or back to Kansas. He could drive around the lower 48 and patch together whatever life would come.

Out of nowhere, this gorgeous Cuban chick with huge, dark eyes gave him a million dollar smile that knocked Dean’s thoughts right off the rails and brought his whole mind to a screeching halt.

 

***

 

Sam gazed up at the hotel building. Maybe Dean was already in there. Perhaps he'd spent the day in his room, sulking, watching crappy movies like Sam would have done. Well, he would have read, but in a profound state of self-pity. He smiled back over his shoulder at Ruby. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Sam.” Her hand made itself at home, roosting on his thigh, in the name of comfort and reason. “He’s fine.”

“Yeah. I know. If anything happens to him, though--”

“It's your ass,” Ruby said. “I get that. But what can you do? You need to relax and let him come back, wagging his tail behind him.”

She could grin, because she wasn't the asshole who let Dean go. Sam had given him the car keys, had gone along with Ruby’s plan as if she still held the chain to his choker.

Ruby gave his leg a little squeeze. While she was at it, she might as well grab his balls. “You'll come around and say goodbye, before your flight, right? I mean, I know it's not your last trip down here, but I think she'd like that. I know I would,” she added, with too much tenderness, as though she’d forgotten the most basic tenant of their separation and divorce and Sam’s sexual identity.

“We don't have to be at the airport until 4:00,” he said, disentangling his captive leg. “I was thinking Luna should spend the day with us. With me and Dean, and you could ... I don't know, run errands or whatever you need to do. If you're comfortable with that.”

Ruby gave a tight nod. “Let me think about it.” Her hand retreated to the steering wheel as Sam’s right foot hit the pavement.

“Yes,” he said. “Please do.”

 

***

 

Live music: piano, horns and three-part harmonies spilled out of a bar. The word amor was heavy in the lyrics. Dean had two years of remedial Spanish under his belt, so, yeah, he knew what was on the air even before this girl Cha-Chad over, popping gum like it was an Olympic sport.

“God, you are predictable.” She tossed glossy black curls over her bare shoulders. “You want to get into these hot pants so bad, don't you?”

Dean’s eyes went wide. There weren’t a lot of girls who skipped to the chase so early in the flick. Hell, if he was reading her right, this senorita was bypassing the pursuit altogether and going straight for the crash.

He had only been intending to chat her up. Talking to a girl this hot was its own reward. A lot of guys would wet themselves if this kind of beauty approached them. For Dean, it was exhilarating like a fight, like that breath right after the snap of the ball. That thud of his pulse and the flood of adrenaline.

Her popstar-pretty face turned up and her black eyes met his. She was all skin and bones and tits shoved up to her neck. Real or fake, who knew, but, also, who gave a shit? The bigger question was whether he could show up at the hotel smelling like pussy?

He'd go to his own room and shower first. It wasn’t like he owed Sam anything: not an explanation and not fucking chastity.

So what, the guy had held him all night? Dean didn't ask him to do that.

Dean, and more importantly, his dick, was ready to put this girl on her hands and knees under the boardwalk and set his night to her music. As always, he had a condom in his back pocket and no good reason not to. Hell, he needed it. Needed to go back to Sam with his thirst already slaked, his beast already fed. Then, maybe, they'd have a cool night together without all the tension. It was too perfect to pass up, so Dean reached out and touched her arm.

“She thinks you're cute, but you’re not getting in here, you little shit.” The girl wiggled her hips in her skin-tight Daisy Dukes and frowned. “Man, these things are a yeast infection waiting to happen.”

Dean’s head cocked like a hound dog hearing sirens. The girl spat her gum onto the boardwalk an inch from his shoe. “What the hell are you doing down here?”

“Excuse me?”

The way she pinched his chin was not sexy. It was almost …

Dean would have figured it out faster if his mother had been more of a mom and less ... Jody.

But this girl wasn’t much over 18 and the way she touched him was maternal. “Is it something to do with that ape? You aren’t still fucking him, are you, Dean?”

"What the fuck?” He swatted the hand away from his face and would have fallen onto his ass if his back wasn’t pinned against the wooden railing.

“I don't have a lot of time here.”

“Jody?” It was too insane to speak louder than a whisper.

“Clever as ever, Einstein.”

“What the fuck, Jody? Where have you been?” Because what other question would you ask your dead mother when she shows up in someone else's body?

"Suffering for my iniquities."

"What the hell does that even mean?"

"My father wanted to punish me."

"Jesus."

"No," Jody said. "Definitely not him. ” She patted his cheek. “ I was so clueless. All those years, I thought I was outrunning him. I did my best.”

Dean took Jody by the girl's bony arm and dragged her into a shadow where no one could overhear. “What’s going on? Are you dead?”

She shrugged. “Depends on how you look at it, I guess.”

It was the moment of truth, whether Dean could handle it or not. “Mom, what are you?”

“You know how I feel about labels, kid.” She stroked his face.

This was the longest they'd ever been apart and some kind of emotion clawed at Dean's throat. “I know you’re not human.”

“I am. Part…" She winced. "I don't know if there’s a word for what I am, okay?”

“So, you’re part human. What’s the other part?”

“Demon.”

Okay.

She could have taken a moment to set that up. Now it was out, what was he supposed to do with it?

Dean doesn't know what he thought she was, but it wasn't that, was it?

Demon.

Okay.

“I just wanted you to know --” She searched over her shoulder, as if she was expecting unwelcome company. “I didn’t want to leave you, I… I had to be reach my father before Ketch did, so I could explain.”

“Your father? Ketch is… What the hell, Jody?

“My father wanted you dead. You understand that, right? And that was my fault.”

Dean could only stare.

“But I'm fixing it. I’ve told him you can be useful. That you're willing to serve.”

“Serve what?”

“I have to go, but I'll be back soon.” She blinked and for a moment, her eyes flashed completely black. "You're safe for now."

The girl threw back her head, opened her mouth wider than seemed possible to let a gust of hideous black smoke escape and blend with the night sky.

“Jody?”

She curled up her button nose. This time it wasn’t gum but incoherent Spanish that she spat at him, with a spicy eye-roll on the side. Dean spoke fluent body language and what she said wasn't friendly, considering the way she turned and sashayed away.


	34. Chapter 34

Sam was ready when the knock came. He flew across the floor and flung the door open, prepared to rip out Dean’s old asshole and install a new one so he could tear into that, too.

The kid stood there, face haggard and drawn.

Sam’s shouts dissolved before they could well up in his throat. His arms opened, encircled Dean holding him in a silent cocoon until his shivers had subsided. Then, Sam stepped back, gripped his shoulders and took a hard look. “Where were you?”

“Everglades, most of the time. Saw my mother.”

Everglades?

Saw his mother?

Dean had been soul-searching.

Ceaseless wonders.

“I get it.” Sam's palm cupped Dean's jaw. “I get that. I do. When you're out in nature like that, profound things can happen.”

Dean blinked at him, expression vacant. He turned toward the door. “Going to grab a shower.”

“Will you …” Sam took a step after him and stopped himself before it became full-on pursuit. “Do you want to sleep here?”

“If you don't mind.”

 

***

 

Dean closed his eyes. Sam’s arms were solid around him, the weight of his leg draped over Dean’s, the constant press of Sam’s pulse against his lips was tangible, incontrovertible.

“I was worried.” Sam's voice was quiet and deep. Real.

“Sorry.”

Sam kissed his forehead.

If this thing between them was ever going to be normal, it was up to Dean to make it that way. To roll onto his back and rest his head on his own pillow instead of nestling in Sam’s arms like a sniveling female. To get the fuck out his brother’s bed and sleep in his own room. To suck it up and deal with the hurt, like a man. None of those things happened, because Dean was pitiful and he couldn't stand to be alone. He wrapped his arm around Sam’s waist and changed the subject. “Did you guys have a good day?”

Sam’s chin brushed his forehead when he nodded. “Luna's crazy about the ocean ... and you. She didn't stop talking about you all day.”

“She's a goofy kid.”

“Even Ruby said that you two have some kind of cosmic connection.”

Dean chuckled. It was true. He and Luna were instant pals, the same way Sam captivated him from the start. “I guess that would be you.”

“Hm?”

“You're what connects us, right?” Dean propped on his elbow. “Something else, um, from deep thoughts in the woods. You need to stay down here.”

“What?”

“You got all this flexibility with your work, right? Put it to good use," Dean said. "Stay a few weeks, a couple of months. Rent a place and get to know your kid.”

Sam’s brow wrinkled. “What about you?”

“I got a ticket to ride tomorrow afternoon. I'd like to say goodbye to her, though.”

“It's summer. You have no reason to go back.”

“You kidding?” Dean almost laughed out loud. “Your dad’s got me signed up for three different ball camps.”

“You're going to camp?”

Dean shrugged. “He said it's good for my chances.”

“Yeah. No. He's right.” Sam said, laughter clipped. “I did all the camps when I was your age.”

“See?” Dean plucked Sam’s arm out of the way and laid on his own pillow.

“I guess, I could work from here for a while.”

“Good. That’s what you need to do.” Dean folded his hands over his belly, a satisfied prophet, message delivered.

One of Sam’s fingers trailed down the center of Dean’s chest, setting off flares that ran from there to his spine and put his dick at attention. “What if I need you to stay?"

Dean rolled onto his side with his semi toward the door. “Sam, I just told you.”

“Yeah, but I need you.”

“You don't need me.”

“You have no idea, do you?” A gigantic hand closed around his hip.

Dean closed his eyes and willed himself not to move. If he couldn’t walk away, at least he could be still.

***

 

Sam turned down the brain-melting rock music and asked, “You ever think about going to Disney?”

“Nope,” Dean answered and turned the radio back up.

“Are you morally opposed?”

“I'm with you and Luna. I do what you do.”

What they did was stand in lines for hours. The rest of the time they sweated, ate ice cream (or Dean did, and shared a bit with Luna). Then, they chased Luna, regretted giving her ice cream, went on rides and cleaned up vomit.

They returned to Ruby’s house with under an hour before they needed to leave for the airport. She'd prepared a nice meal, and once Luna had a brief, much-needed bath, they ate together. Even the little one agreed to forego the fruit salad dessert, but she bounced in her seat and clapped when her mother announced a special presentation.

The timing of this trip had been sheer coincidence, although Kant would have attributed it to super-conscious knowledge. As far as conscious planning was concerned, Sam had chosen the first weekend after Dean’s school let out.

He clasped his hand in front of him, preparing to feign surprise. Ruby had already explained: this was the first year Luna had made a Father's Day card in school that wasn’t for her grandfather. An oval sun smiled back at him and shone on crooked trees and stick figures. Across the table, there were layers to Dean’s expression that Sam might never peel away.

“She insisted on making you one, too, last night.” Ruby handed Luna another construction paper rectangle, which Sam’s daughter presented to Dean, who scratched his eyebrow and slid that finger over the corner of his eye.

“Luna, that’s--”

“You didn’t even look at it.”

He chuckled, opened the folded piece of paper, then laughed out loud. “My pleasure, kid.”

Luna beamed.

Sam traded cards with Dean. The front of his card bore a solar visage by the same budding artist who had decorated Sam’s. The art on the inside was more challenging to discern. Something in the sky, probably a bird, but could have been an airplane, or a shark for that matter. That was attached by lines to a horizontal stick figure suspended in mid-air. Perhaps it was a puppet, but the caption, scribbled in Ruby’s atrocious handwriting, read: A stork named Dean bringing my Daddy to me. I love you. Thank you very much. Love, Luna

Luna crawled into Dean’s lap and proceeded to teach him Miss Mary Mack.

Sam and Ruby discussed boring details until the alarm on Sam’s phone announced departure time.

“We’re not going to come down,” Ruby said. “Let’s just do goodbyes here.”

Sam nodded. It was simpler. Luna clung to Dean and he patted her back, stood, and tried to put her on the ground. She lifted her feet forward, then bent her knees backward, a tiny activist refusing to be put down.

Ruby’s voice dropped an octave. “Luna. What did we say?”

She peeled Luna from Dean’s arms. The little girl screamed like she was being skinned alive as her mother carried her from the room and didn't return, even once the crying had stopped. Sam consulted his watch and knocked on the table to get Dean's attention. They needed to move.

“We’ll make it,” Dean said. “I know you’ve left, like, twenty extra minutes for traffic.”

“Yeah. For traffic.”

“This is kind of more important, don’t you think?”

Sam opened the app on his phone that gave minute to minute flight updates. Theirs was still on time, which meant they needed to be on time.

Luna marched back into the room, followed by her warden/mother. The little girl planted herself right at Sam’s toes, looked up at him like he was a redwood, and chanted through trembling lips and sniffles, “It was nice to meet you, Daddy and I hope you'll come back someday, even though I was a being a silly crybaby.”

Sam touched her head. “Of course, I will. I’m really glad to have met you, too, Luna.” He knelt and gave her a firm hug.

Dean whisked her from her feet, spinning her like he was leaving for war. He muttered something in her ear and Luna nodded. Sam and Ruby exchanged bemused looks and waited until Dean had put her back on the ground, giggling.

“What did you say?” Ruby asked, with an edge of skepticism.

Dean shrugged. “Just reminded her about the ducks we saw today. One of them sha-- pooped right on Minnie Mouse’s head. It was kind of a classic moment.”

“So, you two have the same sense of humor,” Ruby said it to Sam, as if she was proving some point.

When Dean started tickling her, Luna let out a contagious, high-pitched squeal-snort. It infected Ruby, and Sam, and the boy Sam loved - a once easy-going kid who never seemed to relax anymore. Dean threw back his head and laughed so hard that Sam’s entire body flooded warm with a yearning to paint them both in fresco and live within those walls for all eternity.


	35. Chapter 35

7:13 AM the next morning, they were following a real estate agent into the lower level of a house in Ormond Beach, Florida. It was close to Ruby's home, immediately available to sublet, and had far more space than they would need. Sam had told the realtor as much before they even crossed the threshhold. "We're here now. Let's just have a look," she'd said and ushered them into Lifestyles of the Wealthy and Wasteful.

“As you can see, on the bottom shelf of the game cabinet, there's a VR console.”

Dean glanced at Sam, fingers twiddling on his thigh before he picked up the remote control and turned on the 110” Ultra HDTV. Sam couldn't help but laugh at his wide-eyed awe over the television or the dragon battle ensuing onscreen.

“If you’ll help me flip this…” The agent took one end of the foosball while Sam handled the other. “Foosball to billiards, so you and your--” she stopped herself from sharing her assumptions.

“Little brother.” Dean patted Sam’s shoulder and collected a poolstick from the wall.

Sam gave the woman a false smile. It wasn't any of her business what they were to each other.

As they moved up the stairs to the kitchen and dining area, Dean fake yawned behind the realtor’s back and wandered off for the self-guided tour. The woman was busily puzzling over the complicated, modern stove when Dean's head appeared around a corner. He gestured and Sam cleared his throat. “Excuse me, for just a moment, please.”

In the hall, Dean grinned and rubbed his hands together. “Dude. You're not going to believe this Jacuzzi.”

The master bedroom contained only that: a polished walnut, California king size canopy bed blanketed in hunter green that matched the walls. A gentle essence of bergamot wafted in the air. Sam paused to take in the gull's songs and crashing waves through the open blacony door. Magnificent dreams could be made in this room.

He shook his head clear and continued into the en-suite bathroom.

"Huh?" Dean turned with his arms spread, presenting the place as if he were designer and builder.

Sam bowed his head, attempting to hide his smile. “You like it?”

“Fuck, yeah. What's not to like?” Dean pointed at the four-person hottub, then out of the floor-to-ceiling window. “Are you seeing this view?”

The only view that interested Sam had its face pressed against the glass like he'd never seen water. “You want it?”

“Yeah.”

Sam crept closer, his voice lowering an octave. “You want me to get it for you?”

Dean turned, as if sensing a predator approach. “You teasing me?”

“No,” Sam answered. “If you want to live here, it's yours.” He placed a hand on Dean's waist.

The kid stared up at him, paralyzed, and what Sam was doing wasn't fair. To either of them.

He took a step back.

“No fucking strings?”

“Have there ever been any strings?”

Dean shrugged, quashing his enthusiasm. “It's your money.”

“I want you and Luna to be happy.”

“I think she'll like it. You saw all the kids’ books and stuff down there. I have a feeling she's a little egghead, like her dad.”

Sam placed a hand on Dean's waist. The kid stared up at him, paralyzed, and what Sam was doing wasn't fair. To either of them.

He took a step back and said, “I think she’ll like it, too.”  
Dean nodded. Luna should be happy; they could agree on that without it meaning anything more.

When he thought Sam wasn't looking, Dean pumped his fist in the air. When Sam thought Dean wasn't looking, his grin melted into desperation.

 

***

Dean cranked the music and hung his elbow out of the driver’s window. He sang along too loud and studied the billboards to keep himself from watching the wind whip Sam’s hair all over his face. It was fucking gorgeous. And awful.

They reached the grocery store and he strolled down the cereal aisle with his hands behind his back like a king surveying his lands. It wasn’t so long ago that Dean’s breakfast options were limited to bags of stale Dollar Tree off-brands. Mary Winchester was the polar opposite of Jody in that she spared no expense for brick-tasting, organic crap that was fit for horses. 

Food would always be one place where Dean took full advantage of Sam’s ‘give-the-boy-whatever-he-wants’ policy. He dumped every product he’d ever been curious about into the shopping cart. Sam scrutinized the nutrition information on a box of Lucky Charms.

Dean plucked it from his hand and dropped it back into the cart, in the back, so it didn’t touch green things.

“You know you're the only one who can eat that garbage?”

“Not my fault.” Dean shrugged. “Take it up with Mother Nature.”

One man’s trash, another man’s treasure.

Sam piled their purchases onto the conveyor belt while Dean tossed on a few candy bars. The pack of watermelon Bubble Yum, he placed in the cashier's hand. Kelli, unless she was borrowing the name tag. She rang it up and gave it back to him.  
Kelli wasn’t much older than Dean, but her hair was stringy and brittle. Dark circles shadowed dull blue eyes. At some point, she'd been pretty, though. In the not too distant past, she'd been somebody’s daydream. Probably more than a few somebodys. It looked like one of those guys had scored and now Kelli had a kid at home, or out in the car, waiting for her shift to be over. That's where Dean used to hang out when Jody’s employers didn’t want a rugrat underfoot. 

He unraveled the first piece of gum from the package. “You want some?”

Her eyes lit up, giving a glimpse of the looker she was before little Mistake Jr. came into the world and sucked the life out of her pockets and her tits.

“Sure.” Kelli accepted but didn’t put it in her mouth.

She set the individually-wrapped candy on the platform below her screen, like a trophy, beside an Ironman action figure. She smiled and finished ringing out their groceries. As Sam swiped his plastic, Kelli spared Dean one last look before she moved on to the next customer.

Sam didn’t have to say a word. He had perfected a silence that banged on Dean’s eardrum. He wound up the windows, turned the A/C up until Dean’s nipples were stiff and chafing against his t-shirt. Shotgun shuts his cakehole, so Dean didn’t balk about the frigidity or the elevator music. Once the freezing air in the car was thick and barely breathable, he broke down and asked, “What’s your problem?”

Sam shook his head at first, chewing on his tongue. Two minutes later, he pursed his lips. “Everywhere we go?”

“What?” When Dean figured out what Sam was bitching about, he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “The check out chick? I was just playing around. Being friendly. You should try it.”

“Are you trying to prove something to me or yourself?”

“You need to chill the fuck out, Sam.”

“You know what? Forget it.”

“Yeah. Let's do that?”

Dean helped carry the groceries, but to avoid further stank mood and stupid conversations, he left Sam to put them away. He gripped the stainless steel railing around the balcony, letting salty-warm Atlantic air fill his lungs. Then he made his way down the spiral stairs to the patio, where he poked the small shovel around the ashes that remained in the outdoor fireplace. When did the homeowners ever need something like this, as hot and humid as it was down here?

Eventually, Dean shucked his shoes and followed the stone path to the beach. The gulls screeched and circled overhead, noisy and willing to eat anything they could fit in their annoying beaks. Waves rolled over his feet, displacing the sand and sinking him to his ankles.

The ocean was an old frenemy. Once, when Dean was a kid, he'd been in Maine with his mom, pressing his fingertips against a stomach so empty it curved out of the spine side. It grumbled just to hear itself, because there wasn’t a damn thing to put in it. Jody had marched him to the shore and taught him what oysters look like. She'd also warned that if he wasn’t careful, the sea would see to it that he was never hungry again. After an hour of hunting, they turned up a few dozen of the things. Jody built a fire and fed him roasted oysters on a stick until he was about to burst. They were disgusting, but he was past the point of caring. Teenaged, well-fed and for all intents and purposes, motherless, Dean cast a shell into the endless water.

The house was even bigger from this angle. He hadn't seen the stilts. Somewhere, behind all that glass and steel, Sam was angry because Dean had shared his gum. It was too insane to think about, so he strolled along the coast until he passed a sign. The other side of it read:

No Trespassing. Private Beach Beyond This Point.

He'd missed that part of the conversation with the real estate lady.

“Jody?”

Thankfully, no one was there to witness his further descent into insanity.

“Can you hear me right now?" Gazing skyward was backwards, so he aimed his words at the ground. "Are you seeing this shit? If you can hear me, make it rain or something.”

Even if she could hear him, she probably didn't have that kind of clout.

Dean stared out at the ocean until the sun set behind Sam's house. Somewhere out there, his demon grandfather wanted him dead. As crazy as it sounded, it wasn’t that much worse than anything else he’d been through. Sam, on the other hand, was incomprehensible.

 

***

 

Settled on the floor in front of the sofa with a huge bowl of salad, Sam breathed in the oceanview and watched the speck on the reddening landscape until it grew into a prepossessing young man. The glass door slid shut behind Dean with a scrape and a slam. "Sorry."

He eyed the triple-decker sandwich, chips and the bottle of craft beer from the homeowner’s stash that Sam had set out for him on the coffee table. “That for me?”

Sam nodded.

“Thanks.” Dean sat down on the floor a few feet away and dug into his food, humming and rolling his eyes in appreciation.

He should have washed his hands, but Sam swallowed the urge to tell him so. When there were only a few chips left on his plate, he asked through a mouthful of food, “How does this place work? You’re renting it, right?"

"Subletting, so basically. I signed a six-month contract.”

“I can't stay that long.”

“I know. It was the minimum they'd offer.”

“So, you just…”

Sam shrugged. “Maybe Ruby will want to use it, or my parents. Anyway... it's ours through December 23rd.”

Dean leaned back against the sofa, chewing on and swallowing the rest of his questions, when Sam would have answered him anything. Silence bubbled and swelled around them while a distant storm illuminated ocean and sky. Breath by stilted breath, Sam found himself closer to losing it. Sitting there was worse than having Dean in bed.

In bed, the rules were clear: endure the scent of Dean, suffer his warmth and soft skin, bear the sleepy-sweet murmur of his voice. Anything was allowed that wasn't sex or wouldn't lead to it. Cuddling, yes. Grinding, no. A kiss on the forehead, but none on the lips. Sam got it, hated it, but would always respect what Dean wanted.

What about when they were sitting side by side in front of a sofa, watching a sea storm? What would Dean allow? Could Sam touch his hand? Or his face, without Dean flinching away? Could Sam run a hand through his hair or brush a finger over the shell of his ear? Had his nighttime restraint earned him that much?

Was this space between them because they were brothers?

Sam had done his research. Brothers have each other's backs. They get on each other's nerves. Look out for each other, let each other down.

Sam and Dean were all of that, but there was so much more between them.

“I love this place,” Dean said.

Sam looked at him and bit back the words until salt and copper filled his mouth. They spilled out anyway, drenched in crimson. “I love you.”

Dean didn’t face him or turn away; he sat frozen in time like a memory.

Another flash of lightning cracked the clouds and lit up the dark waves. Heaven was putting on a light show and Sam had defiled it by trying to name the unspeakable. He stretched out his left arm, heart aflutter like a teen in a movie theater. Before his hand found harbor, Dean rose and started collecting their dishes. "You want anything else?"

Sam kept his mouth shut.

 

***

 

Dean lay in his bed with a copy of Moby Dick propped on his belly. It wasn't half bad. He’d only made it to the third page when Sam filled up his door frame with damp hair sticking to his forehead, and a towel wrapped around his waist. Dean was already staring, but Sam knocked twice on the door frame. “You sleeping in here tonight?”

“Yeah.” Dean laid the book flat over his chest. “Just figured now’s a good time to get over this shit.”

“You're welcome, you know. More than …”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, I know. But I can't spend the rest of my life afraid of the dark ... I mean we'll have to quit it when Luna's here anyway.”

“Why?”

Dean laughed and lifted his book back into position to keep reading. “Because asking a five-year-old to keep a secret is like posting it on Tumblr."

“What's the secret?”

Dean fixed his eyes on the page. His fingers tightened around the sides of the book as Sam crept toward the bed and sat down.

“Then can I stay here?”

“This bed's too short for you,” Dean answered without looking up.

“I'll sleep on the floor.”

“Go to bed, Sam.”

“If that's too close, I'll curl up in the closet.”

Dean regretted raising his eyes the moment they met Sam’s. “You making fun of me?”

“Did you ever consider that I might need you.” Sam eased the book from his hands. ”Need your company at night?”

“Fuck off, Sam.”

He placed Moby Dick face down on the table. “That it might make me feel useful.”

“If anybody's Gilligan on this island, it's me, dude.”

Sam traced a finger over Dean’s collarbone. “Can I stay until you fall asleep?”

Dean looked away and tried to clamp down on the heat that one finger stirred up in his veins. “It's your house.”

He retrieved his book to have somewhere to put his eyes. There was no way to concentrate with Sam sitting at his elbow, so Dean put the damn thing aside and cut the light. Sam's fingers wrapped around his arm and gave a gentle squeeze.

Dean lay in the dark with his eyes wide open, while Sam’s thumb stroked back and forth over his bicep.

He couldn't tell the guy to beat it after he'd come crawling to Sam’s bed begging for refuge. Sam hadn't sent him off or insisted on a blowjob or done anything but make Dean feel safe and sane. So, he shut up and let him sit there. What did it hurt?

Despite his intentions to stay awake and out-stubborn Sam, Dean nodded off. He awakened with fingers brushing over his forehead and riffling his hair. Without even bothering to open his eyes, he slid aside. “Get in the bed, you freak.”


	36. Chapter 36

Dean’s phone buzzed him awake.

JW: What the hell, Dean??!

Shit. He should have told Jo what was up.

DS: Morning

JW: Y R U not here?

DS: Because I'm here.

JW: Ur not coming home???

DS: Course. Just a little later

DS: Going to camp down here. Go Dolphins! (dolphin emoji)

JW: Don't do this

DS: Do what?

JW: Go back to him

Sam was one hell of a big spoon with his hand heavy on Dean's hip. Good heavy. With all the space he took up, it was a miracle Dean hadn’t fallen off the bed.

JW: Daddy’s so pissed. You know he didn’t want you down there in the first place

DS: Chill, Jo. Luna's awesome. FL is awesome (palm tree emoji) (hula girl emoji, which was all wrong, but made the point) (sunshine emoji) (ocean waves emoji)

It was an orge of fucking emojis because he did not need Jo freaking out and telling her father that Dean and Sam were back together. Especially since it wasn’t ever going to be true.

DS: TBH, I could use a vacation from your dad. The guy is kind of intense.

Dean got up to piss. By the time he returned, Sam was gone.

JW: He just wants you to succeed

DS: And I appreciate that. Just need a break.

He pulled on his jeans and added:

DS: You could come down, if you wanted. There's like 60 rooms in here

The number was exaggerated, but he sent a pic of one of the awesome rooms where she could stay.

Sam was at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and his laptop in front of him. He smiled as Dean entered. “Hey.”

JW: All I want is to be next door listening to you two make like a pair of baboons

Dean winced at his phone. Baboons? Really?

DS: Not happening

JW: Yeah right

DS: I swear. On you

JW: GTG

DS: Text me l8r

No reply. He slipped his phone into his pocket and sighed. She had a right to be pissed. He should've said something.

Sam raised his brow. “Everything good?”

“Yeah. I smell coffee.” Dean poured a cup with his back to Sam.

He suspected that instead of working, the guy was now watching his every move. When he turned around with his mug between his hands, Sam’s gaze was so intense, Dean couldn’t even muster the smug grin he’d been planning. He retreated to the balcony and left Sam to get his work done.

 

***

 

Ruby was in danger of giving herself a cramp, the way her jaw hung open as she took in the wall to wall glass in the foyer. “Oh, my God, Sam. This place is amazing.”

“It was Dean’s choice,” Sam explained with his hands in the pockets of his chinos.

“Well, we knew he had good taste.”

Dean lead Luna down the hall to her bedroom while Ruby wandered into kitchen, opening cabinets and peeking into the fridge. "So, what's on the agenda?"

In the name of peace, Sam let her rummage. ”Guess we'll see. Dean said I should stop planning everything and just enjoy her.”

“So, you listen to him?”

“When he's right.”

Ruby ran a finger over the countertop and rubbed it against her thumb. “You know, it's been a lot of transition for one week, and now a new place. Almost an hour away,” she said. “I could stick around if--”

“I think we'll manage.” It was a kind, generous offer, but not one that Sam could accept. “Would you like to see her room before you go?”

Dean and Luna sat in the middle of her floor putting together a Donald Duck puzzle. Ruby gazed at the decorations he and Dean had put up: the nightlight moon, the cocoon hammock, the rainbows and glow-in-the-dark constellations on the ceiling. They would remove everything at the end of the contract, but Luna should feel at home in her special cove until then.

“Is it…” Ruby looked at Dean. “Would it be possible for you and me to have a brief chat?”

 

***

 

Dean followed Ruby into the living room, leaving Sam bug-eyed and nervous-looking, although whether it was about this conversation or being left alone with Luna was unclear. Dean crossed his arms over his chest. Too belligerent. Stuffed his hands into his back pockets and watched the tiny woman pace.

“Listen, I didn't mean to insinuate or in any way make you feel you weren't…” She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I realize what you must mean to Sam and if I--”

“It's cool.” If all she wanted was to apologize for making him get lost, Dean would let her off the hook and be done with it.

Ruby stood in the middle of the floor staring like she was waiting for a confession. Dean kept to the other side of the room, waiting for a question.

“I haven’t really had anyone since Sam. None of this is easy for me.”

Well, that wasn’t a question. It was an awkward fucking statement and the only way to respond to it was not to.

“It's obvious he has strong feelings about you,” Ruby said. “And that you two have something special.”

“That's not--”

“I've never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you. Certainly not me.” She ran both hands through her hair. “Which is fine. I just wanted to tell you, because I can’t have this conversation with Sam. Luna doesn’t know about sex ,and I’m not ready for her to. Please don’t let her see you two--"

“We’re just friends, Ruby.”

“What?”

Dean considered every possible escape route from the house and the situation. “Sam is like a brother to me.”

“Oh, my God. Are you two really not--”

“We're really not.”

She covered her mouth. “Is there any chance you could forget everything I just said?”

“Forgotten.”

“Wow." She spun on her heels, collecting herself. Then she turned and said, "He has a killer crush on you.”

“I doubt that.”

“Oh, he does,” she said. “I'm actually really glad you're here. It helps me remember that he's not mine anymore.”

 

***

 

Luna suggested they bury Sam, and Dean was a little too onboard with that plan. Once Sam was covered, except for his face, the kid Dean smiled down at him with his hands on his hips.

“Is this exactly where you wanted me?” Sam asked, spitting out sand.

“Not necessarily, but I am impressed that you actually went through with it.”

“What does that mean?

Dean shrugged. “Hey, Lu. Is it time to dig up our treasure yet?”

Free again, Sam put them to work collecting shells and driftwood and sea glass. Dean stuck close to Luna’s side, carrying their pail while she shouted out each time she found something wonderful enough to collect. Meanwhile, Sam took a stick and drew a simple mandala for them to fill in with whatever pattern Luna liked.

Hours later, Dean stared down at the masterpiece they'd created. Sam raised his brow, awaiting commentary. When Dean remained speechless and shook his head, he took it as a compliment.

At sundown, Sam lit a fire in the pit. Dean speared and burned hotdogs which Luna munched without flinching. Then Dean taunted them with his messy s'mores while they ate roasted apples for dessert. When the little lady let out an impressive yawn, Sam and Dean exchanged a grin.

“How about I help you get ready for bed and Uncle Dean reads you a bedtime story so Daddy can get some work done? Sound good?” Sam carried her on his shoulders into the house, glancing back at Dean as he doused the fire and cleaned up.

Pajamas, the hooded towel with fuzzy ears, and the bottle of bubble bath - all of which Ruby had packed and drilled him on: check, check and check.  
It wasn’t until they stood in front of the bathtub that Sam panicked. The last thing he wanted to do was call Ruby and concede defeat. Clueless how to proceed, he looked over at his little daughter who leaned forward and turned on the bath water. Sam put in the stopper and the tub began to flil.  
It wasn’t molecular physics.

Luna dumped in some of her bubbles and took off her shorts. “That’s Zoe.”

“Oh. Ok. Hi, Zoe.” Sam twisted the fluffy orange creature’s head back onto the bottle and set Zoe beside Luna’s towel.

He held her hand while she stepped into the bath. As she settled down into the water, she shrieked, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”

“What is it, baby?!”

“Christopher?”

That was confusing as hell for a second, but better than trying to explain to Ruby why he had boiled their daughter alive. Sam sat on the rim of the tub, clutching his chest. “You almost gave me a heart attack."

“What’s a heart attack?”

“A heart attack…” Sam began, unsure what topics were off-limits. Had they talked about death? Body parts? When in doubt, honesty is always the best policy. “Is when your heart stops beating.”

Her brow furrowed with extreme seriousness. “And then your blood can’t go around?”

“That’s right.” Sam nodded and swished his fingers under the suds, checking the water temperature again.

“And then, you die?”

Well, that answered that question. “Sometimes.”

“Ringo died.”

“Who is Ringo?” Sam scooped handfuls of water over her back.

“No one anymore, because he died."

“Fair enough.” Sam didn't let himself laugh, in case Ringo had been a cherished pet.

"He was a beetle in Pop-pop's garden."

"Got it. And Christopher?”

“He's in my bag, but he needs to have his bath.”

Sam stood. “Absolutely.” He made it as far as the door.

One of his parenting books had warned against leaving children alone in water. Luna was a stronger swimmer than Dean, but why take chances? He leaned his head out of the door and shouted, “Hey, Dean?!”

“Yeah?"

“Can you come up here for a second, please?”

He must have dropped what he was doing; his footsteps were on the stairs in a matter of seconds. “Everything cool?”

“Yeah. I just need you to stay with Luna while I grab Christopher. Or can you bring him?"

“Who’s Christopher?”

“Crocodile. In her bag.” Christopher had been part of Ruby’s debriefing. Sam had just forgotten until Luna insisted on having him.

A minute later, Dean delivered what turned out to be a green washcloth puppet. Judging by the dewlap and caudal spines, Sam pointed out that Christopher was more likely a marine iguana than a crocodile. Both Luna and Dean responded with wide-mouth, stupified glares.

“So, what can Christopher do?” Dean kneeled beside the tub with the puppet over his right hand. He lowered his voice and grumbled like Mr. T., “Hey, Luna. Time to get clean. Pity a fool don’t take a bath.”

“No, it’s like this.” She spoke in a high-pitched, indiscernible accent, “Looona. To wash your body, it’s time."

“Ah.” Dean smiled and nodded. “So, like Yoda.”

“What’s Yoda?”

“Don’t worry about it.” He changed his voice to more of a pre-pubescent Kermit, the Frog. “Stink very badly, your toes do.”

Luna laughed and let him wash her feet.

“Very, very tasty, soap is, yes?”

Sam leaned against the door frame with one arm crossed over his chest and the other hand covering his smile.

“All right, Chris. Buddy.” Dean placed the puppet on the side of the tub. “I need you to chill right here so we can wash Luna’s hair.”

Luna yanked the toy back into the water, sending a tidal wave splashing over the sides and drenching Dean. He raised his hands and gawked down at his clothes.

“Dude. Christopher. You are going to have a relax, man. You’re making a tsunami in here.”

“What’s a nami?”

“It's like this big ol’ storm.”

“Actually, it’s a wave,” Sam corrected. “A really big wave. See, storms happen up above, when there are changes in the atmosphere. In the air. A tsunami starts below the surface of the water. Like if there’s an earthquake under the sea, it pushes the water and makes a huge wave.” Sam animated the concept with both hands, as if he were pushing the water forward.

“Hm.” Dean shrugged. “Guess your dad’s the expert.”

Luna and Christopher splashed him again and Dean burst into laughter. In an atrocious mangling of an Australian accent, he proclaimed himself the Crocodile Hunter.

“I’ve got to rid this tub of all messy reptiles, mate.” Then he looked at Sam. "Or is it an amphibian?"

"No. He's a reptile."

By the time the bath was over, half of the water was on the floor. The other half was on Dean.

“I’m going to go put on my jammies,” he said. “I’ll meet you guys over there.”

Sam helped Luna pat her hair and skin dry. She put on her own pajamas and fuzzy sea turtle slippers. He brushed her hair; she brushed her teeth. By the time they arrived in her bedroom, Dean was waiting with three books fanned in his hand like playing cards.

Sam drew back the Dora the Explorer covers and she crawled into bed without a fuss. He kissed her forehead. “Good night, Princess Luna."

“Good night, King Daddy.”

Dean hid his laughter behind his books.

Sam pointed. “And who’s that guy?”

“Uncle Dean is the Duke of Daddyland.”

Dean cocked his head to the side. “Yeah, I don’t know. We’re going to have to work on that.”

Sam smiled. Duke Dean couldn't have been a more fitting title. “Is it okay if I get a little something done?”

“I got this.” Dean held up his hand for a high-five.

Sam tagged out, as if they'd been performing this routine for years. Just before he left the room, Sam turned once more to watch Dean snuggle in on top of the blankets, showing Luna the titles he'd brought. A rush of warmth washed over him, along with the keen awareness that he would kill or die to protect those two.

 

***

 

Dean held up her choices. “Which one you want?”

“All.”

“Greedy.” He ruffled her hair, privately proud. “You have to pick.”

She grabbed Curious George and said, “First.”

Pointing to a Batman comic book he’d found in a box in the rec room, she declared it, “Second.”

Her third choice was one of the Disney Princess books Sam had bought for her, since the homeowners only possessed stereotypically boy's books and toys for their grandchildren.

Dean would have left the damsel in distress bullshit in the store, but Sam had insisted and she was his kid.

There was no point arguing any further. He stacked the books according to her preference. “Tonight only.”

Curious George was tossing a pizza crust into the air when Luna started nodding off. He closed the book and her head jerked up. Dean tried paraphrasing and skipping ahead, but she caught him before he could turn the page. “That’s not what it says.”

“Can you read?”

She nodded and cuddled closer under his arm.

“Hm.”

Dean had been in third grade in Twentynine Palms before one of his teachers realized that he could barely write his name, let alone keep up with Dick and Jane’s wacky antics. Everywhere he’d been before that, they’d just shuffled him along with the rest of the class. Maybe they could tell he wouldn’t be their problem for long.

But that chick, Ms. Greer, made Dean her personal mission, not that he made it easy on her. There was value in being class clown, but Math was hard and Reading was worse. Before he'd started playing ball, getting kids to laugh was how he adjusted to the constant stream of new schools. It was a cakewalk, and they liked you for it.

But Ms. Greer had sat with him for an hour after school the entire time Dean and Jody were there. She hadn't turned him into Princeton material, but Curious George didn’t give him any trouble. Hell, he could read Melville. Slowly, but still. That wouldn’t have been the case if it wasn’t for one tireless teacher.

He put the book aside and tried to slip from the bed, but Luna caught his arm. “Read.”

“Okay,” Dean said. “I will. Let's just talk a little first.”

She didn't argue.

“You like it here? This house?”

She nodded.

“Good. Like your room?”

Another nod.

“That’s good. Your dad worked really hard on it.” Actually, they'd argued over every detail.

Sam leaned more towards flowers and hearts and Dean insisted on neutral decorations: stars and animals. If he’d had his way, she’d have Tonka trucks and GI Joe, but Sam shot that down the moment Dean started walking the ‘wrong’ aisle.

“If there's anything you need, if you miss your mom or anything, you just have to let me and your daddy know, okay?

Luna nodded again. Dean glanced up at the movement by the door. Sam was back, watching them. Their eyes locked, heat crashed into him so hard he looked away to keep himself from being swept under.

“Pssst.” Sam held a finger over his lips.

Then, he crept into the room and helped Dean lay Luna flat. Just as they were slipping away, she caught Dean’s fingers. “Sing?”

“Sing what?” Dean knelt beside the bed and brushed back her hair.

Her sleepy eyes were the exact caramel as her mother’s, but everything else about her was Sam. There was no question that this was his kid. She had a miniature pair of dimples, long, skinny legs for her little body, a beautiful mind, and stupid allergies.

Sam jizzed inside of Ruby one time and made this miracle happen.

Jody had never told Dean that he favored his father. That was no great surprise now, given the circumstances. It was also, apparently true. He looked no more like Ketch than he favored Winchester. He didn’t even resemble his mother, for that matter.  
He didn’t look like anybody.

For some dumb reason, that made his throat hurt and his nose sting.

He gazed at Sam’s daughter for a long time, aware of Sam's presence, but not ready to turn around and start bawling like an idiot. The longer Dean looked at Luna, Spawn of Sam, the lighter he became, more whole - like she was formed of pure redemption. Maybe all little kids are.

He bowed down so that his nose was just a few inches from hers.

“When I wake up  
Well, I know I’m gonna be,  
I’m gonna be the man who’s waking up with you...”

 

***

 

Sam sat on his side of the bed, flipping through the local activity magazine. “What do you think about mini-golf?”

“I don’t think about mini golf. Mini-golf sucks.” With his head on his own fluffed up pile of pillows, Dean only had eyes for Moby Dick.

Sam blocked out his story of the time he’d taken a girl to play mini-golf and only gotten to second base.

“There’s a lawn movie at the mini golf course tomorrow. You think Luna will like that?"

“I think it sounds lame, but Luna will tell you herself whether that sounds like fun to her or not.”

Sam dropped the mag to his chest. “When I see you with her, I can’t help thinking --”

“Quit second guessing yourself, Sam. You’re good with her.”

“You’re insanely natural at it.” It was a silly thing to be jealous of.

Sam had never wanted kids. Had never been around them. All things considered, it was going well.

Dean shrugged. “I just do what...I guess, I wish…”

Sam reached for his hand, but should have known Dean wouldn't allow that.

“What was your dad like, when you were little?”

Sam sighed. He had no desire to talk about his father - ever, but especially not while he was laying next to Dean. But it was a reasonable question. “He was a drill sergeant. A lot of the time. But not always, you know?”

“No, I don’t.”

Sam stroked Dean’s wrist with one finger, carefully extracting his foot from his mouth. “How is it for you, being there, with him? I mean, is he… Is it what you expected?"

“I don’t know what I expected.”

“Do you have questions? About ... you know, our side of the family?”

Dean shrugged. “I never thought about that.”

“Well, we got Scottish, Italian, German and Apache on my ... On dad’s side.” Sam placed his magazine on the nightstand. “My mom, I guess doesn't really matter to you, but her mother was Norwegian, like fresh off the boat, couldn't speak a lick of English. And her dad was Dutch and Irish. Born in Boston. I'm named after him. Real hardass, Samuel Campbell. Almost as bad as John Winchester.”

“Your dad doesn't want me to --”

“You can just call him dad.”

“No, I can't.”

Sam thought and rethought the words a dozen times before he let them out: “When we get back, I want you to come stay with me.”

“Sam, I can’t even think about that with Castiel there.”

“Castiel has been gone for months.” Sam had never lied so easily in his life, but he had all summer to make it true.

Before he had decided to leave Cas alone in the apartment, there had been visions of fire trucks dancing through his head. But Castiel didn’t cook. Ever. He ate out of plastic and styrofoam containers when Sam wasn’t around. There was no worry of him burning down the place. With his new prescription, he was stable enough to function a few weeks on his own and call if he needed anything. It was good practice for him. Eventually, he’d have to figure out how to be on his own. Maybe he was ready.

He'd have to be.

“Your dad would…"

“Just think about it.”

 

***

 

Dean’s eyes fluttered open to a dark stare. Luna clutched her battered stuffed goose to her chest. His pulse picked up. She wasn’t supposed to see him in bed with Sam. Apart from Ruby’s request, it could lead to all kinds of misunderstandings.

He started to get up; Sam caught his arm.

“Luna, you need to go back to bed?” Sam grumbled without opening his eyes or lifting his head. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

“It is morning.”

Dean’s checked his cell phone. 5:57 AM. A sliver of dim light slipped through the shades. “I’ll get up.”

Sam groaned and rolled over onto his back. “Fine.”

Apparently, he didn’t think it through before he hoisted himself to his feet. He took three lumbering steps from the bed before Luna asked, “Daddy, why do you have a tail?”

If Sam had a tail, that was something Dean needed to see. When he realized where Luna was pointing, he covered his mouth with his hand. Sam’s face and chest flushed beet red before he yanked the sheet from the bed to wrap around his waist.

“Why do you have a tail?” Luna repeated.

“All boys have ... It's called a penis.”

“Penis?” She said like she couldn’t believe such a thing existed.

Dean covered his eyes with his forearm and shuddered with caged in laughter.

“Uncle Dean. You have one, too?”

“Yes, I do, sweetheart."

“Let me see.”

“Yeah, no.” Dean chuckled. “I will, however, convince your dad to make us breakfast.”

“No convincing necessary,” Sam said, having slipped into sweatpants with a speed and stealth that put Clark Kent to shame. “What do you rapscallions want?”


	37. Chapter 37

Coach Whitaker’s whistle sounded after Dean had launched his pass. For a second he thought he’d fucked up, even though he was right on target. Three sharp toots and the whole squad filed into the end zone and dropped to do push-ups. Dean did the same without knowing why.

A spotless pair of white New Balance passed by him like clockwork, every few minutes and eventually, the coach spoke. "Boys who’ve been with me before know, I have two daughters. One of them is a judge. The other one, a neurologist. I also got a son who served two tours in Afghanistan, kicking the hell out of the Taliban's ass. He happens to be married to a man. They are, every one of them, great Americans and I'm not going to stand around and let anyone of you shitheads disparage them. If you're new, ask somebody who’s been around here before. Zero tolerance. One warning for the entire squad and this is that warning. We do not have any pussies, wussies, nancies, sissies, faggots, or females on this team. Technically, pansies are flowers, but since that ain't what you mean, none of them either. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir!” Dean said in unison with the other players.

“What?”

“Yes, SIR!”

“Good. Ten laps and get back to drills.”

Dean crumbled on his jellied arms and took two deep breaths before he stood and fell in line with the rest of the squad.

 

***

 

Sam used his middle finger to smudge burnt sienna into his sunset. His phone rang at 5:35 PM, just as it had every day that week. He sighed and touched the green button to accept the call. “Hey, Cas.”

“When are you coming back?”

“I told you that yesterday, and the day before.”

“You can’t spend the entire summer down there,” Castiel whined, just as he had done yesterday and the day before.

“Did you do it?”

“Sammy.”

“Castiel, it’s two blocks, okay? All you have to do is pick up the key. Everything else is taken care of. I’ve arranged the movers and … I just … You can’t be there when I  
get back. I need you to say you understand that. I need verbal confirmation.”

Cas whimpered in his ear.

“It’s for the best, okay? You’ll be fine. It’s a nice place. I saw it online. There’s a pool and everything.” Sam had spent nine hours searching out the right location. He’d already paid the security deposit. “Just, go, get the key…”

“So, he's going to move in?”

Sam put down his charcoal and wiped the residue from his fingers. “I told you; it’s not about that.”

“Liar.”

His horizon could use a splash more Prussian blue. “How was your class today?”

“They all still suck,” Cas answered. “Come home.”

“Cas. I need you to do this. Tell me you hear me.”

“I hear you.”

“Good. Now, tell me you’ll do it.”

“I hate it,” Castiel said. “But fine.”

“And you’re taking your meds?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Good.” Sam stepped back from his work, nearly satisfied. It was nowhere near as breathtaking as the real thing, which he admired over the balcony, but art is imitation, not life. “Call me tomorrow, if you want, okay? From your new place. Let me know how it is.”

“No! Don’t go yet.”       

 

***

 

The rest of the players and cheerleaders were engaged in some nonsense on the field. As it turned out, this slender redhead, Anna wasn’t really a cheerleader and didn’t give a shit about football. To hear her tell it, that confession would have amounted to blasphemy in her family.

She was a little weird, but she and Dean had sat together and talked every day in the mess hall. On the last night of camp, she took his hand and led him to a lake Dean hadn’t even known was on the premises. She lit a joint and had a toke. “Andrew thinks you’re the third coming.”

“No offense, but your brother is an idiot.”

She laughed and offered her spliff. “But you are good, aren’t you? Like, football is the rest of your life.”

Dean had a deep inhale and held it before he replied, “My … Coach seems to think so. He’s pretty well connected so…”

Anna laid back in the grass. “You love it?”

“It’s hard not to love something that gets you laid. It’s like being a rock star, or a famous actor, or something, sometimes.”

She was stone silent for a while before she asked, “Is sex really so great?”

“Yeah, it is.” For some reason, possibly the weed, Dean chose to honest with this girl. “I mean, it can be. It can also suck.”

A long-legged bird landed in the water and stood there like a sentinel among the ripples it had created.

“I’m not going to fuck you.”

Dean chuckled. “Okay.” Of course, he’d thought about it, but he was always thinking about it, in the same way he might want a snack at random times throughout the day.

“I like you, though.” Anna took her joint from his hand. “It's not like I’m waiting for marriage. Just … You’re going to laugh at me.”

“Maybe.” No point making false promises. If it was funny, he was going to laugh.

“I just want something that feels like magic. Like undeniable. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?” She turned to look at him. “What’s her name?”

Dean huffed and shook his head. He declined her next few offers for a hit. He needed to keep his mind clear unless he was around people he trusted, and the world was practically void of those now.

Anna tamped the bud out in the dirt and gave it an informal burial. “It’s better to have lived and loved than never have laughed out loud … I don’t know. Something.”

“Yeah.”

 

***   

 

Sam was sketching when the car pulled up, noisy engine audible through the open window. Dean had texted that he’d found a ride back and Luna wasn’t due until later in the evening. He put down his pad and charcoal, wiped his hands on a cloth, and headed to the porch.

Dean pulled his duffel from the trunk and Sam dialed back the anticipation on his face. It bubbled in his stomach and made him want to run down the steps like a retriever welcoming home its master. He curled his hand over the railing and compelled himself to stand there and wait.

A pale redhead stood by the rear passenger door, watching Dean, too. When he faced her, she wrapped bony arms around his neck and let Dean's arms encircle her waist. At around five seconds, Sam’s temperature hit critical. When they'd been holding each other for ten second point, he started to imagine what words Dean was whispering in the girl’s ear. Sam turned aside, jealousy hacking at his chest like an icepick.

When they finally stepped apart, Sam tried not to watch whether Dean would kiss her. The girl looked up at the house. Asking to see his room? Asking Dean to fuck her one last time before next week, when Dean would go back to camp and Sam would be left in this massive glass coffin alone again? Had he agreed to stay in Florida so this kid could screw the natives?

Dean’s face read reluctance and uncertainty, but he gestured, ‘Ladies first’ and let the girl lead him up the walkway.

Did he expect Sam to step aside for her? Just let her into his house, let them fuck under his roof and not say anything? Not do anything to stop them?

His shoulders stiffened, spine steeled as he debated whether to blockade the door, or allow a brief tour and only barricade Dean’s room. The other alternative was to be cool. As Dean would say, to chill. Sam could go down to the beach and grant them some privacy. Then Dean would see that Sam wasn’t trying to own him, crowd or restrain him in any way. Afterward she was gone he could say, ‘See? I let you fuck her. Now, would you, please, fuck me.’

“Sam, this is… Anna Milton. Anna, my brother, Sam.”

Anna was proof that Dean’s type had nothing to do with attractiveness. All he needed was someone who was alive and willing. Out of decency, Sam shook a hand he could have crushed like pretzels.

Dean shifted his bag from one shoulder to the other and looked back at the guys waiting in the car.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sam. Dean does nothing but talk about you.”

Before, during or after?

Dean scratched the back of his neck and seemed relieved when the driver honked his horn.

Anna rolled her eyes. “I got to go. Unlike you, my brother is a moron.”

They hugged again and Sam stepped into the house, narrowly resisting the temptation to lock Dean out or punch him.

 

***

 

Dean knocked on the office door a third time. “Sam. Luna's here. You want to say anything to Ruby before she splits?”

When no answer came, he returned to the living room. Luna had already made herself at home with a book. Ruby was gazing at the ocean.

“I don't think he's feeling all that good. He was being weird when I got back.”

Ruby turned around and her smile was too friendly to be real. “Oh, yeah. How was camp?”

“Yeah. It was all right.”

“Dolphins is a terrific franchise.”

Dean nodded.

“Well, look.” Ruby glanced at Luna. “If Sam's under the weather, we can just do next weekend.”

“No. No. He'll be fine. Just …” Dean rested his hand on Luna's hair - even softer than Sam’s. “Luny and me will give him a couple hours to rest. Then we’ll jump on  
him. I mean, I’ll let her...”

“You sure?” Ruby asked. “You want me to stay until--”

“No... I mean, unless you want to.” Dean shrugged. “That's fine, I guess. I was going to take her down to the beach, check out our thing.”

“Your thing?”

Dean pointed through the window at their art project, small but visible in the distance. “Yeah, we made that with Sam.”

“So, he is still painting? I'm glad to hear that.”

Dean didn't reply because he didn't know anything about Sam painting.

“Well, if you're sure, I think I will head back, then.” Ruby grabbed her purse from the couch. “I've got a ton of work to catch up on. That one missed two days this week. Which reminds me, if she says anything about upset stomach or anything, just call me.”

“Got it.”

Luna ran and gave her mother a hug. Ruby waved goodbye to Dean and he shut the door before she was in her car.

Another knock and Sam still didn't answer. “Can you just tell me what's going on? Are you alive in there, dude?”

Dean tried the knob again. When it didn’t turn, he checked down the hall to be sure Luna hadn’t followed him. Then, he stepped back and kicked the door in. As it cracked open, the deadbolt took a chunk out of the wood frame. Security deposit

Sam sat behind the desk. His eyes widened, then lowered again.

“Dude. What are you doing? Luna’s here.”

Sam swiveled the chair around to turn away.

“Are you okay?” Dean approached with a combination of caution and concern.

There were tears shimmering on Sam’s cheeks, but he was breathing hard like a dragon with his jaw clenched.

“You’re mad at me?”

Sam’s breath hitched, lips twitched, but he only looked away again.

Dean strained his brain for any possible explanation. He'd only been back a few hours, and Sam had hardly spoken to him in that time. As a matter of fact, Sam had holed himself up in his office, saying he had work to do when Dean had expected some kind of greeting. Any indication that after a week, Sam was happy he was back. When that didn’t happen, Dean sucked up his disappointment and kept himself busy, washing his clothes and making himself a sandwich - specifically not bothering Sam. Leaving him alone, like he obviously wanted. Dean had passed by the door a few times, but kept himself out of there.  
Now Sam was pissed at him?

“Whatever your fucking problem is, you need to suck it up and go hang out with Luna.”

“I don’t think I can,” Sam muttered.

“She’s your kid. You can’t just not.”

Sam shook his head.

“You fucking…” Dean huffed out a loud breath and left before he did any of the stupid things he was thinking.

Because he'd proomised, he took Luna down to the beach, let her check out the art project while he kept his distance. If he got too close, he’d kick the fucking thing apart.

Luna waded right at the water’s edge, but didn't swim because her suit was up at the house. When they went back inside, Dean gave her dinner, triple checking her no-eat list that stayed attached to the fridge behind a dolphin magnet. She snuggled up under his arm to watch a documentary about sea creatures. More than once, Dean caught himself checking over his shoulder to see if Sam would join them. He rolled his lips together and forced himself to focus on the goddamned squids.

Then Dean set Luna and Christopher up in a bubble bath. She refused to get out, even though her fingers were pruny. When her lips started turning blue, Dean gave her an ultimatum, "Get out now or no books before bed."

"My towel."

There was nothing wrong with the soft, downy towels that belonged to the house, but Dean sighed and tromped to her room to dig up her stupid towel with the ears. He yawned on the way back to the bathroom. This day needed to fucking end.

Luna shrieked his name and Dean ran the rest of the way.

It all happened in cartoon slow motion. His bare foot slid out from under him in one of Christopher's bathtub-tsunami-puddles. Even as his ass landed, hard, against the floor tiles, something in that ankle - the one he'd busted jumping out of the police station window - snapped.

Dean blinked and tried to stand, but pain shot up his leg. “You okay?”

Luna pointed to a centipede, way up in a corner, miles away from her.

He wound up having to dry her with one of the house towels anyway, because he’d dropped hers when he fell, and it was sopping wet.  
Maybe Luna could see he was tired, in pain and a generally shitty mood, but she had mercy on him. She even tolerated the abridged version of Are You My Mother? and went to bed without giving him any more trouble.

Dean hobbled to his own room, leaning on the wall for support. He stripped down to his boxers and dropped himself facefirst onto the bed. With nothing to distract him from the throbbing, it became pounding. He hoisted himself back to his feet and struggled down the hall to look in the medicine cabinet for pain killers. He downed five Advil with a palm full of sink water and got himself back to bed.  
Sleep didn’t happen. Nor did the pain die. It just became an appropriate backdrop to Dean’s nagging questions about Sam.

Sam refused to look at him. Had been crying angry tears. The guy looked like he’d been lied to or betrayed.  
Had he found out something? About Jody? About Dean?  
But if Sam knew about that, he wouldn't let Dean back into his house. He wouldn’t leave Dean alone with his daughter. If Dean had been thinking, he wouldn’t have let Ruby leave Luna. He still didn’t know what he was, or when that black smoke part of him could take over. He had no idea how any of the demon business worked. All he knew was that he would kill himself if he ever did anything to harm that little girl.

Shortly after midnight, a shadow darkened the foot of his door. It lingered for a moment and Dean kept his mouth shut. While he was deciding whether to ask the guy to come in or tell him to fuck off, the shadow moved on.

 

***

 

Sam stopped outside of Dean’s bedroom on his way to his own. A few hours later, he hadn’t slept, hadn’t even climbed into bed. He was just haunting his room like a ghost of himself, with heat and cold overtaking him in turns. Frustration and anguish in doses that should kill the average man but only kept Sam awake, pacing his floor like a starving animal.

 

***

 

_Jody was gnawing off his foot. She smiled up at him, blood dripping down her chin, the meat hanging like strips of raw ground beef ragged between her teeth._

 

***

 

Sam was at Dean's side in less time than seemed possible, as if he had blinked and found himself kneeling beside the bed, holding his hand. “Are you okay?”  
The screaming had stopped. Dean's eyes were open, but unfocused. When he did finally appear to see Sam, he tugged his hand away and curled it into a fist. With a deep breath, he turned to face the opposite wall.

 

***

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Luna chirped as Dean limped into the kitchen.

“Hey.”

Sam turned his back and lowered his voice as he talked into the phone.

“What’s wrong with your leg?” Luna asked.

“Nothing. I’m fine.” He caught the back of a chair and paused to rest his stupid foot.

Sam still hadn't looked at him, but it wasn't his job to worry about Dean's suffering.

 

***

 

“I have to go,” Sam whispered into the phone and turned his back to Dean, pretending to need something from the fridge.

“I guess he's there, huh?" Castiel asked. "Well, tell him I said hi.”

“I will.”

“Tell him now. Tell him you’re talking to me.”

Sam sat an unnecessary stick of butter on the counter. “All right. Take care.”

“That's what I thought,” Castiel said. “At least I'm worth keeping secret again.”

Sam hung up the phone and placed it beside the butter. He glanced at Dean and took the long way around the kitchen island to avoid  
passing him on his way to sit beside Luna. “Please, eat.”

“I don’t like it,” she whined.

He wiped her hair back from her face. When Dean’s back was turned, Sam nearly cracked apart with a desire to speak to him, but with no idea what to say.

 

***

 

Sam hadn’t put on any coffee. There were no eggs left in the pan. Dean would have stayed the fuck in Kansas if he was going to be ignored. He got himself a glass of water and dragged his lame ass out onto the balcony, so as not to intrude on the family breakfast.

DS: You think your dad would spring for a ticket for me?

It took about five minutes for Jo to answer.

JW: He said he would

DS: I didn’t tell you to ask him

Jesus.

JW: Today. Right now. I’ll find the first flight out

While he was trying to think of what to write back, Sam’s voice rang out through the glass, calling Dean’s name. He hopped to his feet and made it back inside, ignoring the protests of his gimpy foot.

Sam held Luna's limp body against his chest, shook her lightly, patted her face with his own pinched in terror.

“Is she breathing?”

“Yeah.”

Dean called 911 and shoved Sam toward the car while he grabbed the keys. Sam went on cradling his daughter while Dean drove, gritting his teeth against the agony of stepping on the gas pedal.

He explained to the emergency tech on the phone that they weren’t waiting for an ambulance and let the voice guide him to the nearest hospital. Sam ran into the ER while Dean did a piss poor parking job and tried to run in after them, reduced to a mummy shuffle.

When the admitting nurse told him Luna was being seen, he plopped himself into the first seat he could find and pressed his fingertips into his palms. He chewed his lip to keep from crying out.

Ruby arrived less than an hour later. A few more passed before Sam returned to the waiting room, surveying the chairs and sighing when he found Dean. Before he could think better of it, Dean tried to stand, then gave up.

“She’s fine. It looks like we’re going to be adding potatoes to her list.” Sam said. “She’s sleeping right now. Ruby’s going to take her home. I told her I’d drive out tomorrow, stay with her while Ruby’s at work.”

Dean settled back in his chair, finally able to fill his lungs.

“You should have a doctor look at that, while we’re here.”

Dean shook his head. “I’m fine.”

 

***

 

The driveway had become ten miles long.

“Do you want me to carry you in?”

Dean clutched the door as he climbed out of the car. “I’d rather fucking crawl.”

Sam chuckled. “Suit yourself.”

Dean did, however, accept Sam’s suggestion to soak the swollen ankle in the Jacuzzi. Sam let him go in and get situated while he cleaned up the mess from breakfast. As he stepped into the bathroom, Sam body reacted instantly to the sight of Dean: his arms spread out over the sides, his head leaned back, eyes closed, lips and nipples cherry red, chest rising and falling below the bubbling surface.

“Luna’s worse than you, with this allergy stuff,” Dean spoke without moving a muscle.

Sam flushed. Did Dean know he was staring? In any case, he wasn’t complaining or asking Sam to leave. “She'll grow out of some of it. It was way worse for me when I was a kid.”

Sam pulled off his shirt.

Dean’s eyes opened and he sat up. “What are you doing?”

“Coming in to check that ankle.” Sam unbuckled his belt.

“I told you, it's fine.” Dean scooted against the wall of the tub.

“And I believe you, except not really.”

“Why do you think I'm in here?”

“Because it feels good, which is the other reason I'm getting in.” Sam didn’t allow time for any more protest.

Dean looked away when he stepped out of his boxer briefs.

“Suddenly shy?”

Dean scratched the back of his neck and searched every inch of the bathroom where Sam wasn’t standing. “I think I'm done.”

 

***

 

Dean turned to reach for his towel as Sam slid into the water and glided across to crowd his space. That dick was only half-hard but still huge against his thigh. Sam's chest pressed against his and Dean craned his head to the side. "What are you..."

Sam’s hands roamed his ribs as he pressed his mouth to Dean’s neck. “Let me check your ankle.”

“That's not my ankle.” Dean willed his own dick to relax, but it stretched up for Sam’s attention.  
“Stay put and let me make sure you're okay.” This time, Sam glided back to the other side of the tub.

His eyes were nearly green and locked on Dean’s as he leaned forward and took the injured leg by the calf. He lifted it from the water and kissed the sole of Dean’s foot.

“Dude."

Sam smirked. “Sorry. Does this hurt?”

The answer was "Yes." every time he tried to bend it. He almost got himself kicked in the face pressing his thumb against the bone.

“It could be broken, Dean.”

“It's not broken.”

“I don’t know.” Sam winced. “Can you stand on it?”

Dean started to stand. “Turn around.”

“Seriously?” There was that stupid smirk again.

Dean was this close to kissing it right off of Sam’s cocky face.

His eyes flickered to Dean's boner. “I can already see it.”

“You’re not much of a fucking gentleman, are you?”

“I’m a perfect gentleman,” Sam said. “Looking is not touching. But if you want --”

“Just turn around.”

Sam closed his eyes long enough for Dean to stand, stroking his dick in spite of himself. And he couldn’t put weight on his ankle without it howling at him, but he'd already known that. The pain did help wilt his erection, a little.

He hobbled out of the hot tub and pulled the towel around his waist, standing with his ass to Sam, so his dick didn't get any more ideas.

“Dean, that thing is broken, and you need to go to a doctor.”

“I'll see how it is in the morning.”

“Sleep with me,” Sam called after him. “That way, I can keep an eye on you.”

“Good night.” Dean limped to his room where he could jerk off in peace.

As he was falling asleep, it occurred to him that the next day was Monday. He wrote a quick text to Anna explaining that he wouldn’t be at camp because he’d busted his foot giving his niece a bath.

AM: She sounds like a handful.

DS: You ain’t kidding. Anyway, maybe I’ll see you next week.

AM: We’re going to Bermuda next week

DS: Cool. Have fun.

AM: Guess I’ll see you when I see you.

DS: Guess so. Stay sweet

AM: U2

In his dream, there was a short guy with a receding hairline and a black undertaker suit at the foot of his bed. Dean sat bolt upright.

“Relax,” the guy told him in a snooty British accent, raising a hand like a crossing guard.

Dean couldn’t have moved if he’d wanted to.  
Couldn’t blink an eye, lift a finger, let alone call out for this creep to get lost.  
Was he one of Ketch’s goons or a friend of Jody’s?

“No worries, little one. Just a courtesy call.” He rested his hand on Dean’s ankle, stirring up an unearthly heat that penetrated to the bone.


	38. Chapter 38

Dean trudged between the rows sucking his teeth and searching for Sam. This stupidity was his idea. The giant finally emerged from behind a tree with a grin, casting a peel to the ground and offering half of his fruit. Dean declined the orange with a grunt while he swiped the sweat from his brow and rested against a trunk in the 98 degree shade.

“Do you like it down here?” Sam slipped a slice between his teeth.

“It’s hot as fuck.”

“Otherwise nice, though, right?" Sam's gaze slid down Dean's body and came to rest at his feet. "You're sure?”

“I told you before, it’s better.”

“All right." Sam stalked closer. "Listen…”

Dean snaked away from the palm on his cheek. “Dude, chill.”

Sam braced himself with a hand beside Dean’s ear, breathing on his face and smelling like summer in the south and winter up north. Dean shoved him before that sun-kist tongue could breach his lips. “I’m serious. Knock it the fuck off.”

 

***

 

Sam glanced over at Dean's silent vigil of billboards and trees blurring past. “You see anywhere you want to stop, just say the word.”

The kid leaned against the headrest and hid his eyes behind the Ray-bans Sam had bought him in Orlando. Dean hadn't asked, but the sunlight was unrelenting, and they looked incredible on him. Within a few minutes, the quiet rumble of deep sleep poured from his open mouth. He didn’t even stir when Sam stopped for gas.

They sailed down I95 with Sam’s music playing quietly enough for an occasional soft snore to slip through. Sam pulled onto the FL Turnpike and then onto Reagan to avoid the traffic around Miami. They passed the Everglades where Dean had spent a day after which Sam had swallowed a litany of questions to maintain the hard-won harmony between them. Perhaps someday he could ask.

Dean ought to see Manatee Bay, and Key Largo. He should have the full experience of crossing the Keys, riding this stretch of bridged highway down into the mouth of the Gulf of Mexico. But Sam didn't have the heart to disturb him, so he slept until the car came to rest under the hotel's archway.

Then, Dean smacked his lips, looked around and took a deep breath.

“Guess you needed that?”

Dean blinked blearily, nodded and yawned, too adorable for words, so Sam stopped speaking.

 

***

 

“Island House, huh?”

The rope battered the pole on which a rainbow flag flapped below the Stars and Stripes. If that wasn't a clear enough beacon, the sugarplum fairy behind the front desk leered like Sam was on the lunch menu. Dean turned his back to keep from kicking the fruitcake in the perfect fucking bleached teeth he couldn’t stop flashing.

The lobby teemed with guys, every single one of whom ogled Dean, or Sam, or both of them as they passed. Not that Dean minded being watched, but here, he was a walking kabob and a lot of these dudes looked hungry.

He lowered his head, tossed his bag onto his shoulder and wandered down the hall to the Olympic sized pool that overlooked the ocean or the bay or whatever that clear blue water was. He plucked a leaf from one of the millions of tropical plants and turned up his nose at the acid stink of chlorine that blotted out the fresh sea air. The whole place put him on the brink of sensory overload and yet, the only thing that Dean could focus on was all the dicks. The heads of fat guy pickles peeking out from under immense guts, old guy raisins nestled on a bed of shriveled balls, but by and large, they were the kielbasa of fit, young men.

Sam walked up behind him and offered what looked like a credit card. Most of the places Dean had ever stayed issued old school keys that needed to be jimmied in while he jiggled the handle and lifted the door. He accepted with a nod. Room 313. Sam flashed his card in answer to the unasked question. Sam’s room was 326. They were separate again, like Dean had requested.

Their shoulders brushed together as Sam leaned closer than necessary to ask, “What do you think?”

“Where the hell have you taken me?”

“Someplace I can relax.”

A pair of hairless, veiny meatheads, as tall as Sam and roided to the gills, climbed out of the pool one after the other, like a couple of male hippos. They dried their obscene muscles in slow motion and wrapped white towels over poorly-filled Speedos. They took it in turns studying Sam’s junk and Dean’s mouth.

“Dude, I’m, like, a Ho-Ho in this place.”

"More like a Twinkie," Sam smiled and placed a hand on the small of Dean’s back.

It was a subtle gesture, a gentle ushering back toward the main building, and not at all like a sign that read ‘Property of Sam Winchester.’ For the life of him and despite all of his brain’s warnings, Dean couldn’t bring himself to ask Sam to remove it.

“If you’re really uncomfortable, we can go somewhere else.”

“Are you trying to hook up?”

Sam laughed and pressed the button for the elevator.

“I mean, ‘cause, you’ll have plenty takers. If that’s what you want.” Dean didn't want to know the answer. He watched the numbers light up to avoid the weird expression on Sam’s face.

According to the sign on the third floor, Sam’s room was to the right, Dean’s to the left.

 

***

 

After a seafood buffet supper, Sam led Dean to the boardwalk, marveling again that the kid had no trouble keeping up. They’d dodged a bullet with that ankle.

Within a few yards, they encountered two men on a bench. The smaller one straddled the other’s lap, kissing as if he'd misplace something down his throat while the seated man gripped his ass and moaned loud enough to kick up a small spark of heat in Sam's chest. He licked his lips and turned away to give them some privacy. Dean didn't afford any such courtesy, but stared unabashed and unblinking. So, Sam stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder, his cock responding more to Dean's obvious arousal than the stranger's hand rucking up another stranger's shirt.

When the seated man winked over the other's shoulder, Dean blinked off his daze and walked away. It was an opening Sam couldn't resist. He took hold of Dean's arm and backed him against the railing, closing in to claim his mouth.

“Sam, drop it, okay?”

Sam blinked and backed off. “I’m sorry.”

“Just…” Dean pushed him aside.

Stunned, Sam watched him for a few seconds, not bothering to check whether anyone had witnessed the spurn. Dean couldn't be more clear. It was time to quit being a creep and accept No.

Sam took a deep breath to quell the sting in his throat, then again other before he jogged to catch up. “I have a surprise for you, tonight, if you’re interested.”

“I don’t like surprises, Sam.” Dean's pout was unfair.

“I know,” Sam said. “But you trust me, right?”

 

***

 

Dean straightened his sleeve cuff and smoothed a hand over his hair in the hotel mirror. New shirt - gray, new tie - black, like new jeans and Chucks, all courtesy of Sam. It was messed up to accept the guy's gifts and refuse his kisses. Dean probably shouldn’t have been down there, in Florida, in Key West. Probably shouldn’t fuck with Sam’s mind anymore, because that thing between them was over.

He gave himself a last once over. He looked good. He felt good, until he stepped into the hall and found Sam strolling toward him in a shiny grey suit with a black shirt.

Then, his stomach flipped and he tried to flee into his room.

"You ready?" Sam called from behind him.

"Um..." Dean willed himself to release the doorknob and turn around. 

Sam grinned. "You look nice."

"Thanks." Dean avoided looking directly at him, as he would the sun.

"I think you're gonna love this."

Dean managed to smile and nod. He followed Sam to the stairs, unable to force his eyes onto the foliage or the wallpaper. Sam's ass in those tailored pants was not a sight to be missed. Charlie always was a genius.

 

***

 

As they took their seats in the theatre, Sam's elbow brushed Dean's on the armrest between their chairs. He small-smiled an apology and dropped his hands to his lap to give the kid space. Dean scowled as though Sam had kicked him in the shins.

First, he studied the play bill, saying the title out loud under his breath, “An East Side Story?”

Then, he pored through the actors’ biographies and then turned to the woman on his right and started up a conversation Sam couldn't hear. After a while, he leaned back over and whispered, “I didn’t know they allowed chicks down here.”

Then the lights fell and the curtains rose. Sam glanced over every few minutes to watch the reactions on Dean's face. After the opening number, he leaned close and asked, "What do you think?"

"Shhh," Dean responded without turning to face him.  

 

***

 

There was a bunch of singing, which was fine. And dance fighting, which was surprisingly cool.

The show was fine, it was good until Mario sang, "I feel pretty" and a thing happened in Dean's stomach - a falling out of the bottom, sinking, rotted distension.That word. And he was

That word.

And he was a pretty. A pretty little Puerto Rican boy who Dean would gladly fuck through the stage, but did he have to use that word?Time didn't stop for Dean's brooding. Mario's voice rang out, "witty and gay," and the place rumbled with raucous applause and stomping feet. The band let the note ring out. Mario spread his arms like wings. Dean couldn't contain his smile, but Sam's was ultraviolet.Otherwise, everyone remained dignified and the story unfolded with Dean leaned forward elbow on knee, chin in hand, mouth behind curled fingers. His heart raced into his throat by the time the timpanis rolled into the big romantic number. Dean slid back, pressed himself against the

Time didn't stop for Dean's brooding. Mario's voice rang out, "witty and gay," and the place rumbled with raucous applause and stomping feet. The band let the note ring out. Mario spread his arms like wings. Dean couldn't contain his smile, but Sam's was ultraviolet.

Otherwise, everyone remained dignified and the story unfolded with Dean leaned forward elbow on knee, chin in hand, mouth behind curled fingers. His heart raced into his throat by the time the timpanis rolled into the big romantic number. Dean slid back, pressed himself against the chair, as if he could hide from the tingle that was threatening to become a supernova aflame in his chest.

 

_ Tony and Mario: _

_Everywhere I go, you’ll be. _  
_All the world is only you and me!_

 

Shit.  


  
_Tonight, tonight,_  
_There’s only you tonight,_  
_What you are, what you do, what you say._

What the fuck had he been thinking?

Sam was there. Right there. Closer than close.

 

 _Tonight, tonight,_  
_It all began tonight,_  
_I saw you and the world went away._

 

Filling up the place with his warmth, and kindness, and that freaking cologne.

Dean wanted him so fucking bad and kept pushing him away. Eventually, the guy was going to stop trying and then what?

Then, Dean would be alone and empty when he could have, if not all of it, a few rays of Sam's glow.

 

_But here you are_

_And what was just a world is a star_

_Tonight_

 

Heart in his throat, Dean slid his foot halfway between the seats. In the corner of his eye, Sam's smile glimmered like daylight, probably at the show.

 Maybe he was already done with Dean. He'd been putting himself out there and Dean had been such an asshole, over and over again. Chance missed, jackass. Regret wrapped around Dean's throat like a noose.

Then, Sam split the difference. He tapped Dean's foot with his own and pressed their knees together. His foot curled behind Dean’s, hand rested on his knee, waiting with palm upturned to twine their fingers together. His thumb caressed Dean's forefinger until his whole body resonated with the highest notes in Mario's range.

He shifted in his seat, heart melting, dick stiffening, as Sam nuzzled his neck and whispered along:

 _Good night, good night,_  
_Sleep well and when you dream,_  
_Dream of me_  
_Tonight._

Dean closed his eyes and smiled.

While the audience applauded, Sam squeezed Dean’s hand. Then, he left the theatre, moving swiftly along the row without looking back over his shoulder.

 

***

 

Sam's heart still thrashed his ribs. His reflection revealed a shiny face that couldn't stop smilng. Even if Dean didn't come, it didn't matter. They had slept together almost every night in Florida, but it had been months since he'd responded that way. Something so simple as holding Dean’s hand had made Sam tremble to his core. He couldn't have stayed in that place any longer without mauling the boy.

He adjusted himself in his pants and considered going for a walk to cool down when the door opened. Dean's perfect face was flushed, green eyes wide, full pink lips slightly open, breathing as if he had run. Sam smiled, playing down the surge of urgency and possibility swelling within him.

Dean stepped toward him and then, froze.

 

***

 

Sam's eyes never dropped, even while he was loosening his belt. Dean glanced over his shoulder. It was a shared bathroom with no lock on the door. By the time he turned back around, Sam was stroking himself the way he always did, as if they had all the time in the world. As if they were alone somewhere, and not in a public john about to get caught and kicked out.

Dean could have walked away.

Yeah, right.

He might as well have been glued, shackled and nailed to the spot - so hard he could barely see straight.

When Sam's breath hitched, their eyes locked in the mirror. His broad shoulders shifted, arm moving smoothly as he worked himself. A little faster. Then, faster still, his breath growing louder and harsher. Sam supported himself with his left hand, choked back a groan, his entire body shaking as he splashed come onto the slate countertop.The scent of him filled Dean's lungs and made him salivate.

Sam's reflection held his gaze a moment longer before he tucked himself away, washed his hands and brushed his fingers over Dean's as he left the bathroom.

 

***

 

When the kid came out into the lobby, his face was bright red. He snagged a drink from a waiter's tray and kept to the opposite side of the room. Somehow, he wound up in an animated conversation with an elderly couple, laughing together like old friends.

Dean gestured toward Sam and he toasted them from afar. The elders reciprocated with raised glasses and went on chatting with their young counterpart until the lights flickered.

 

***

 

_Even death won’t part us now._

The curtains fell to a well-earned standing ovation. Sam rose and clapped. The lights went up; the theatre cleared. Dean didn't budge for any of it.

After a few minutes of silence, he swiped the tears from his chin with the back of his hand. Then, he got up to leave.

"Do you want to grab a bite or anything?" Sam offered, sticking his hands in his pockets to keep from touching him, in case that wasn’t what he wanted. "Maybe we can find some pie."

Dean shook his head and didn't speak a work on the walk back to the hotel.

The elevator dinged. They nodded 'goodnight' and parted ways without lingering.

 

***

 

Dean watched an early Bond movie he had seen a dozen times. The porn was expensive and he wasn't sure how Sam would take to having that incidental on his bill.

He didn't need it anyway. The vision of Sam in the mirror was spank bank material for ages to come.

Bachelorette reruns soothed him to sleep.

 

***

 

Sam sat at his hotel desk, sketching with his glasses on, drinking Perrier from a wine glass while a live recording of a symphony played in the background.  Just after midnight, he brushed his teeth and went to bed.

The knock was soft, hesitant, almost apologetic, an hour or so before dawn: two quiet taps that stirred him instantly.

Sam lay still, listening to his own heart for a moment.

It would probably be an isolated thing. The kid was horny and wanted to get off. Sam braced himself for that.

Still, Dean had knocked when Sam hadn't let himself hope for it. He got up, picked up his pants and dropped them again, choosing to answer the door naked. Dean was already walking away.

"Hey!"

He turned around. "Can't sleep."

Sam opened his door wide enough for him to enter.

However, Dean refused the invitation. He stood in front of Sam, curved his hand around his neck and pulled him down into a kiss. Sam's arm enveloped Dean's waist and dragged him close until their bodies were flush together with Dean on his toes, hands against Sam's chest. He sucked as if he would consume the boy, tongue first.

The kid stumbled back and wiped his mouth. "Shit."

Sam panted like a hunted animal, heat coursing through him. "I want you. But only if you ..."

"If I what?"

"If you mean it."

"Sam, your dad--"

"I don't give a shit what we tell my dad or anyone else. I just need to know you're with me."

Dean nodded and stepped inside of the room. Sam pressed him to the door and buried his face in his neck, inhaling hotel shampoo and Dean’s sweet sweat. Before he could lose his composure and ruin the moment, he sank to his knees in gratitude.

 

***

 

Long fingers dragged at elastic. Dean took Sam's chin in his hand as he dove forward to take him in all at once.

"Holy -"  Dean banged his head back against the door.

All ten fingers twisted in Sam's hair and held him there. Sam moaned but didn't fight. Dean thrusted forward as he tugged Sam to him, struggling to be gentle and patient. But Sam's mouth was too hot and wet and perfect around him.  
It was a matter of mere minutes before his hips began to stutter, balls tightening in Sam’s firm grip. Sam urged forward to take every drop, but Dean pulled out of his mouth, gripping his dick at the base. “Fuck.”

Sam gazed up, himself in hand as he waited with his mouth open like a true believer.

“I can’t…” Dean groaned. “There's something wrong with me.”  
  
Sam sat back on his calves. “Have you ... contracted something?”   
  
“No. Not like that.”  Dean tried to step aside.

Sam trapped him in place with a hand on the door. “I love when you come in my mouth. If you're healthy…”  
  
“I'm not,” Dean said and pushed past Sam’s arm.

“Have you been retested since--”

“Can you just take my word for it?” He turned his back to Sam and fixed his pants. “There's something in me I don't want in you.”   
  
Sam climbed to his feet and stood behind him, hands closing cautiously around his shoulders. “We can use condoms, right?”   
  
Dean’s head fell forward, chin to his chest. This was a fucking mistake. Everything with Sam was too hard, too heavy.

“I wish you would talk to me. If you … If you’re sick, we’ll deal with it.”   
  
Dean remained still and silent. There was no way he could say it. No way Sam could help him.

“Did you …” Sam kissed the back of his neck. “... sleep with someone you think might have been infected?” He wrapped both arms around Dean’s body. “I don’t care. Doesn't change the way I feel about you.”   
  
“No. That’s not ... My mother,” Dean tensed and then, spit out the truth. “She’s some kind of devil or demon or something.”

It took a moment for Sam to reply, “I only met her twice, but it was clear to me that she had a dark side.”  
  
Dean choked out a laugh. He'd tried before, but even when he said it point blank, Sam couldn’t hear it. “I don’t want to do this, Sam.”   
  
“What? Do what?”

“Hurt you. I’m going to hurt you.” Dean strained to escape his arms. “I'm telling you, something is wrong with me.”

Sam held him closer to his chest, peppering kisses behind his ears and over his cheeks. “You’re perfect. So good, Dean. I ... I want you inside of me. Just pull out if you're not sure, okay?”

 

***

 

When there was no further protest, Sam retrieved his lube. He pulled Dean’s shirt over his head, unfastened his pants and nudged them down his hips. With his left arm tight around Dean’s waist, he stroked his cock like it was his own, while tenderly sucking on Dean's shoulder, his neck, his earlobe, anywhere his mouth could reach. Sam’s cock pressed to his back, weeping and streaking its desire across his hot skin. Sam twirled a pearled nipple between his fingers until Dean relaxed against him.

“Love you,” he murmured, stroking his thumb over the slick pooling at Dean's tip.

With a foot, he nudged Dean's pants to the floor. Then he stepped around and knelt to help Dean out of them before he dropped to his hands and knees, and looked over his shoulder. “Please.”

"Jesus." Dean’s mouth parted as he stroked himself.

Dean slicked up his cock with one hand and pressed the forefinger of his left against Sam's hole. "You’re fucking tight. When's the last time you --"

“Not since you.”

“Why?” Not that Dean had been with anyone who mattered.

“I don’t want anyone else.” Sam held himself open with both hands, planting his face on the floor. “Come on, Dean. Please. I can take it. Just … Now, please.”

***

Dean palmed one globe of Sam’s ass and spat on his hole. He massaged soft circles with his thumb, lower lip sucked into his mouth as Sam gasped and grunted. Dean prodded and then slurped his filthysweet hole until Sam was rocking back, still pleading for more. Begging to be fucked.

Dean rested his left hand at Sam's tailbone and forced him to arch his back. Nuzzling between his thighs, he tucked Sam's shaft back between his legs and licked from the head up over his balls. As his tongue pass over Sam’s entrance, his thumb breached its way home. Sam let out a groan that Dean echoed back to him.

He curled the tip of his tongue into Sam, chasing more of those deep, vulgar sounds, straining to burrow as far inside of him as he would be allowed. Sam growled, reached behind his back and curled a hot palm around Dean’s neck. “God, yes. Dean, please.”

Dean continued to work Sam's dick and to loosen him with fingers and tongue until Sam was covered in sweat and chanting, “Please. God, Dean. Please. Please, fuck me. Please.”

With his tip to Sam's entrance, Dean took a slow breath, steadying himself. Sam sat back with all of his weight, his body enveloping Dean like a welcoming embrace, but too fast and impossibly good.

"Holy fucking hell,” Dean gasped and clutched his hips.

***

Sam’s body trembled as tears burst from his closed eyes, brought on more from relief than the sweet burn. His boy was back and above him, filling him to overflowing, spewing curses and praise. "Fuck, Sam. So good."

"I love you," Sam murmured between sobs.

Dean warm lips fell to his shoulder. "I ... I'm with you. Okay? I’m … fucking with you."

***

He reached around and jerked until Sam's body clenched him tighter still. Sam shuddered and splattered onto the hardwood floor, shouting Dean’s name like a psalm. A few pounding heartbeats later, Dean pulled out and painted Sam’s back - a modern masterpiece of cream on tanned skin. He allowed himself only a moment before he fell to the ground and scooted away, stopping only when his back hit the wall.

Selfish. Stupid. He never should have taken this kind of chance with Sam. He could have lost his shit. Could have

Dean dragged his knees to his chest, dropped his face into his hands, quavering, but no longer with aftershocks of his orgasm.

"Are you all right?" Sam crawled toward him, resting a hand on Dean's shin, searching his eyes and seeing God knows what.


	39. Chapter 39

"Morning." Sam's gorgeous smiling face and his crazy morning hair had taken impermanent residence on Dean's arm.

Despite tingling fingers and a half-dead and leaden arm, Dean didn't ask him to move. Instead, he watched Sam kiss his armpit and grin at the thumb Dean pressed to a purple mark on his shoulder. The skin blanched and darkened again when he released it. "You own a turtleneck?"

Sam moaned, still groggy. "My ass is going to be killing me for a week."

"Maybe you'll think about me."

"S’all I do." Hazel eyes were open now and trained on him.

New topic. "Seriously, though. That suit?"

"Charlie, of course. You like it?"

"It's fucking lethal."

"I can have her make you one." Sam wiggled his way higher on the mattress and nuzzled Dean's neck.

"Yeah, and then we can go out dressed alike."

"No. Just..." Sam rolled his eyes and poked a finger between Dean's ribs. "You're feeling better?"

Dean curled his spine and stretched like a hounddog, away from the question. He wasn't going to talk about that shit. Wouldn't know how to start. "My dick is sore."

"How many times did we--"

"I don't even know." Dean's thumb traced his tender shaft.

Sam slid a careful fingertip down his shoulder. "I mean --"

"How's Charlie doing, anyway?"

"Good," Sam said, taking the hint. "Thinking of opening a boutique."

"And Castiel?" Dean wet his throat with a thick swallow. "You still see him, don't you?"

"I have. I don't know. He's different." Sam searched for the right word and landed on. "Better."

Dean didn't want to ask, but couldn't stop himself, because he needed the punishment. "You miss him?"

"No. I miss you." Sam held his gaze as he brought Dean's hand to his mouth and sucked in his thumb.

"I'm right here." Dean let him for a moment, then reclaimed his hand. The last thing he needed was to get hard again.

"I miss you all day, every day. Whenever I’m not with you.”

Dean scratched his ear. "You should come over your parents’ more often. Your mom would love that."

Sam rolled over and propped on his elbows, staring like Dean had just fallen out of the sky. "Have you considered --"

"I'm just starting to do good in school, Sam."

"Well."

"Well, what?"

Sam smiled and pecked his lips. "There's a high school three blocks from my place. The ratings are excellent for academics. The team is strong. I could set up a conference with the principal."

"I don’t know, Sam." Dean bowed his head, trying to escape without physically running away.

Sam's argument and his smile dissolved. "Just want you to know you're welcome. Always."

"Thanks," Dean whispered. 

He was never any match for Sam's moods. Overgrown adult Sam, who proceeded to rub his nose on Dean's arm like a juvenile labrador retriever. "You know that's disgusting, right?"

"It itched."

"That's why you have hands, dude."

"That's why I have you." Sam rolled over, straddeled Dean's hips and pinned his wrists above his head.

"No. No no no. Sam, get off me." Dean struggled, but remained stuck with a 230 lbs child shackling his hands together with one colossal palm. 

Sam wiggled his fingers over Dean's ribs, threatening but not yet touching. Still, Dean shrank away from the promise of torture, trying to sink through the mattress. "God, no. Stop it!"

"Shhh." Sam blew into his ear. "You're going to get us tossed out of here."

"Then you stop fucking tickling me." Dean kicked at the air, his legs useless behind Sam’s back. "I swear, I will scream."

Sam laughed like a tyrant, but showed mercy. He sat upright, stroking a palm down Dean's face, his expression worshipful again.

"Get off of me, you ape."

"Never," he delivered it like a joke, but didn't budge.

So, Dean had no choice but to lay there, growing uneasy in his skin while Sam petted and stared. He turned away as the  knuckles brushing his cheekbone became long, warm caresses down his neck and shoulders, soft fingertips on his chest.

"Let me up, Sam."

"You're so pretty."

Dean winced. “Seriously, get off me."

"You don't want me to say that?” Sam leaned down and sucked in his lower lip. “Can I call you beautiful?” A torment of kisses, one for every word. “Flawless? Perfect? Exquisite?"

"Would you get up, so I can go take a dump?"

A final kiss to his cheek. Then Sam hoisted one powerful leg so that Dean could smack his thigh and flee to the bathroom.

***

When Dean returned from the shower, his idea of a beautiful boy was shirtless and pouring Sam a cup of tea. Pitch black curls fell over eyes the same kaleidescope of hues as Sam's. Rays of sunlight peeked through the curtains for the pleasure of dancing on his cafe au lait skin. 

Dean had never been what anyone would call modest and he's no slouch. A lot of people took a second look and some craned their heads to watch him pass, but this guy was Adonis. And Sam sat in the center of the bed like a god, looking back and forth between them.

The server stopped mid-pour, reciprocating the admiration, his eyes poring over Dean before he handed Sam his drink. 

“Dean, this is Max. Max, Dean.” Sam gestured and accepted his mug. “I got you eggs and bacon.”

Dean nodded while Max treated himself to a generous eyeful of Sam’s chest.

“I'm not allowed to proposition guests," he said. "But if we were to meet somewhere later and it happened…”

Dean raised his brow. Sam was watching his reactions, so he reigned them in.

“Both of you,” Max answered the unspoken question.

“Thank you, Max,” Sam said. “That's very flattering, but I don't think we're going out anymore today.”

“Smart. Storm's coming.” Max crossed the room, bent over and took his twenty dollar tip from Sam’s hand with his teeth. He smoothed and tucked the bill into the elastic of what looked like middle-school gym shorts. “You can ask for me to be your server anytime. If you like.”

Dean watched the guy leave and let the door close behind him before he turned and said, “Whoa.”

Sam climbed from the bed and gripped him by the back of his neck and the chin. “Would you want him?”

Dean shrugged, poorly concealing the truth.

"While I watch?" Sam tightened his hold.

"Fuck."

He leaned close and brushed his cheek over Dean's so he could blow the answer hot into his ear. "Maybe on the night before the world ends."

Sam smiled and Dean chuckled. “Is there anything you want to try now? Something we haven't done.”

Sam nipped his lip. “Alone with you?” 

Dean nodded and Sam slipped to his knees. Sometimes he seemed more comfortable gazing up than down. He was certainly happy to lick and suck, moaning as Dean clutched the hands on his thighs and shivered his pleasure. The sky rumbled in reply. 

“You know what I want?" Sam sat back and wiped away a vulgar trail of precum and spit. "I want you to push me around.”

"I'm half of you, dude. How am I supposed to --"

"I'll submit."

Dean sucked on his tongue, poring over ways he could play with such a massive, matchless body. “You want it rough?"

Sam nodded, eyes upturned and reverant.

"Like what?”

“I don't know.”

“Yeah, you do.” Dean wiped Sam's hair from his face, pinning it behind his ear. “What do you want?”

Sam averted his eyes. Shy, now. “You could call me names.”

“What names?” 

“Come on, Dean.”

“You're asking; you ought to be able to say it.” Dean's hand was still on his head, a gentle, protective touch. 

 “Like slut?”

“You want me to call you a slut?” Dean repeated to be sure he was hearing what he’d heard.

“And maybe slap me around?”

Dean’s jaw came unhinged, but he quickly snapped it shut.

“Only if you want to.”

He gave Sam’s cheek the lightest smack and his variable eyes grew wide and glassy. Dean smoothed his hair before he gripped it tight, tugging his head back, exposing that thick neck. Sam sighed and yielded like he had no choice.

“Fuck. Look at you.” Dean rubbed his weeping dick over Sam's pink, parted lips.

His tongue lolled out and he moaned, like getting cockslapped was a gift. As Dean bent forward for his mouth, Sam reached up to cup his head, to hold him close. On a whim, Dean shoved so hard Sam landed with both hands on the floor. “Don't touch me, you dirty whore.”

A deeper echo in Dean's head growled,  _‘Get your hands off me, you filthy little whore.’_

Oh, the assholes he'd met.

Sam caught his breath as Dean strutted around him. When the whore dared to peer up, he shoved its face back to the ground, like forcing a puppy to smell its own shit. “Don't fucking look at me. You keep your eyes down. You hear?”

Sam nodded his assent.

_‘I swear, if you look at me again, I’ll beat the living shit out of you, you little pussy. You hear me? Keep your eyes on the fucking floor.’_

“Down, all the way,” Dean commanded. “Get that ass in the air. Jesus, look at that hole. You are a little slut, aren't you? You want me to split you open with this dick?”

Again, Sam nodded.

“Where do you want it? Huh? Tell me what you want.”

“Whatever you want.”

“No,” Dean spat back. “Tell me what you want or I'll leave you with your ass up like an empty fucktoy for the rest of the day. Now, where do you want it, slut?”

“My mouth,” Sam whispered. “Please. Sir.”

Dean's breath, his pulse and the sweat beading on his skin shifted like barometric pressure as Max’s storm descended on the island. None of it mattered. He poured the full brunt of his focus on the thing kneeling before him. Begging. Praying for brutality. Dying to be defiled. “Please, what? What do you want in your mouth?”

“Your cock.”

“Uh huh.” Dean stripped himself, ignoring the burn on his overused skin. 

“Please, fuck my mouth, Dean.”

“Keep my name off your tongue, you understand me? Your mouth is for use only. You don't say a word.”

Sam nodded and opened to receive. When Dean backhanded him, he shook off the sting and blinked, but didn't complain.

“I'll fuck you the way I want.”

_A fat hand closed around Dean's neck and pinned his face to the carpet. ‘I’m paying good money for this ass. We do it like I say, you little whore.’_

“You're mine, right? My pretty little whore.”

Sam moaned and nodded.

“Say it.”

“I'm your … pretty little whore.”

“That's right.” Dean held Sam's cheeks apart, spat and fucked into him, sinking to the hilt in one cruel thrust. Sam arched his back and they both cried out.

“You like that? Huh? That's how you want it?” He filled both fists with Sam's mane, not waiting for the burn to ease into sweet fullness.

Dean hammered and soaked in the pained gasps beneath him as he cursed, spat on Sam's back and angled to harm.

How would it sound when Sam couldn't take anymore? How would he beg then? 

“Dean. Fuck. Wait.” He panted, fingers scrambling over the wood floor.

Dean pounded a moment longer before he stopped himself. He pulled out, thumbed Sam's gaping, overused hole and slammed in again.

“Please, stop.”

The way Dean burned, Sam had to be sore from the previous night's marathon. His dick was chafed raw, but he fucked into Sam once more, to see if he could make him cry.

Then he jostled Sam around and slid into his mouth, fucking his face without restraint. He yanked Sam’s hair, shoving his hips forward until there was a gorgeous strangled sound, and the tight clasp of fingers on his thighs. Then he pulled out and Sam sputtered for air, wiping tears from his cheeks.

The first slap was intentional, just too hard. Gravity, anger and lust smashed his hand across Sam's cheek. The next blow was harder. Dean's fingers balled into a fist before the strike that followed. A small, internal voice urged him to stop, but how could he stop when Sam had asked him for this? Dean needed to watch his head snap to the left with his hair flying in his filthy slut face.

Never mind the crunch in his hand, Dean needed to beat him. For being so perfect. For being a slut. For loving him. For fucking wanting it like this. Dean had never asked for this, but he had gotten it plenty. Love was hard; Dean wasn’t sure he’d ever seen it. But if Sam wanted hurt and humiliation, he could supply.

“Enough.”

It was enough when Dean decided

“Dean, stop.”

and he wasn’t through punishing

“Dean.” Sam leaped to his feet and tackled him.

Breathless but unscathed, because Sam had broken the fall, Dean struggled, screamed and flailed, aching to punch again. To make Sam his little bitch. To damage him properly.

Sam, who was cradling him, whispering, kissing his face. When Dean stopped yelling, his words became clear. Apologies. Sam was apologizing to him and saying, “I didn't think. I wasn't thinking. I’m sorry.”

***

Sam pressed his lips to Dean’s forehead, clinging too tightly, waiting for the boy to break and tears to come. Dean stopped fighting and pressed his face to Sam’s chest, quaking, but without a sound. For the first time, Sam became aware of the rain battering the windows. Wind howled its condemnation and bashed the glass with leaves and branches, self-righteous and loud as a riot.

When their storm had passed, Sam and Dean sat shoulder to shoulder against the wall in the mid-day gloom while the other madness raged outside. 

Holding Dean was like tethering a tempest. Sam had opened the floodgates and brought a furious darkness crashing out onto himself. In repentance, he anchored the boy to the ground with a hand over his hand while the sky did its worst.

 

 


	40. Chapter 40

JUNE 30

Collecting debris after a tropical storm is a great game to play with a five year old for the first hour, until she collapses on her bottom in the sand and says, “I've had it.”

Not ‘Can we be done?' or ‘I'm tired,’but ‘I've had it.’

Sam and Dean looked at each other and laughed.

One carted the three heaping garbage bags while the other picked up their munchkin and all trudged back to the house to wash up for lunch.

When they'd finished eating, Dean plopped onto the sofa. Luna climbed into his lap and he stroked her hair from her forehead while searching for something they both could watch. When Sam planted himself in front of them with his hand out, Dean narrowed his eyes Wild West style, making it clear he would duel before he gave up the remote.

“Come on. I have an idea.” Sam had already assembled the materials.

Luna would love it; Dean would have to go with it. He stood with his arms crossed, grimacing at the paper, cardboard, scissors and colored pencils. “How about you two do crafts and I’ll watch Dusk Til Dawn?”

“Or you can play because you love us.” Sam rolled his eyes.

Dean settled on the floor beside Luna. “That’s messed up.”

“This is something I used to do with your Aunt Jo," Sam explained. "Just give me a second.”

Dean tickled Luna while Sam sketched her, then retraced the lines. Just when her squealing bordered on hysterical, Sam handed Dean the drawing and the scissors.

“Hey! This is awesome.” He showed it to Luna who squeaked and ripped her likeness from his hands.

She twirled around the room, dancing with the tiny paper version of herself. Dean laughed. “I don’t think she likes it.”

Sam put more time and effort into Dean's doll, going overboard with the freckles and trying to get his eyes just right. While Luna’s doll was dressed in a t-shirt and underpants, he couldn’t resist drawing Dean in skimpy Speedos. Sam grinned at Dean’s expression when he handed it over. He also drew himself (with his bruises and black eye, as a joke) and at Luna’s behest, Ruby.

Dean cut them out and Luna helped glue them to the cardboard while Sam got started on basic apparel:  jeans, t-shirts and footie pajamas, all complete with the tabs to hold them in place. Then, he handed over the magazines and instructed Luna to choose outfits for him to draw. He’d made all of the paper dolls the same size so it would be easier to mix and match wardrobes. Ruby-doll and Luna-doll were practically identical except for the hair (Luna's in Dorothy Gale braids and Ruby's loose).

“Why didn’t you tell me you could draw?” Dean asked.

“I haven’t, in a long time. Been painting, too. Feels good.”

“Wow. You going to show me?”

“If you want." Sam smiled, keeping his eyes on his work. "Probably would have studied art, if… You know.” Everything had been different. Or just his father.

Luna finished coloring a lilac evening gown and reached for the Dean-doll.

“Uh-uh. No way.” He snatched 'himself' away from her.

“He wants to go dancing,” Luna explained.

“He already looks good.” Dean nodded at the chic suit Sam had just finished.

“But he wants to wear this.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Yes, he does. It looks pretty,” Luna insisted.

"He's not wearing fricking wearing that, Luna. You got it?" 

"Dean." Sam shook his head. "Not cool."

The little girl gawked, brown eyes wide. 

Anger brewed behind Dean's ribs like a dark, thick avalanche. He rubbed a palm from his mouth down his throat and retreated to the window as Luna dressed his doll in the gown.

“Hey, Luna. Why don’t you put it on mine?” Sam handed her his doll and made his way over to Dean, resting his chin on his head, enfolding him in an embrace.

When the kid tensed and pressed himself against the glass to escape, Sam stepped aside and settled for a hand on Dean’s back: present, but not oppressive. “Okay?”

“Tired,” Dean answered without turning to face him.

“You saying I should let you sleep tonight?” Sam smirked, hoping Dean would laugh or lighten up, even a little. “She doesn’t mean any --”

“I know.” Dean answered too quickly, his clipped voice belying the cool exterior.

Smoke and mirrors, like magic, the way Dean could shut down and deny whatever he was feeling.

Sam wrapped a hand around his neck and pulled him into a soft kiss. His whole body sang Hallelujah at the freedom to do that simple thing whenever he wanted. Intent on giving Dean some space, he turned and met the smiling brown eyes of a munchkin with her chin on her fist like they were live-action Disney.

Dean saw her, too, and scratched his forehead. “I’m going to step out for a little bit.”

Sam employed every ounce of willpower to keep from calling out or following.

***

Dean walked up the beach, past the No Trespassing sign, without destination or intention. He needed distance between himself and that house and Sam and his kid. He’d yelled at Luna over paper dolls.  
  
When he didn’t feel like walking anymore, he pulled off his socks and shoes and left them out of reach of the waves. Sat down on a washed up log, dug his toes into the sand and watched the pink-winged birds Anna called spoonbills as they scooped through the muck. When the sun got unbearable, he peeled off his shirt, dipped it in the ocean and slung it over his shoulders. He texted Anna and Garth until the conversations got lame and dried up. By then, he felt more human, and less like some dark, slimy thing that had crawled up from the sewers.  
  
Sam smiled as he came through the door. “You’re just in time to participate in culinary excellence.”  
  
Dean grinned and followed his nose to the savory steam coming off the pot. Sam’s music drifted through the house speakers and it was about a hundred degrees cooler inside than out.  
  
Luna stood up a chair, stirring a sauce. When Dean came over to supervise, she handed him the spoon and instructed, “Stir to the bottom.”  
  
Sam watched them from his chopping board.  
  
“You need a chef name." Luna put her hands on her little hips. "Daddy is chef Deep Spoon. I’m sous chef Sweet Pea.”  
  
“Sweet Pea, huh?” Dean grinned. “Let me see.”  
  
He grabbed her arm and pretended to nibble. She squeaked and dove from the chair.  
  
“You two take it easy over my sauce,” Sam demanded, recovering the spoon from Dean so that he could give a proper chase.  
  
Luna shrieked and ran around the dining room table. Dean crawled under it, caught her ankle and she screamed so loud, he let her go to laugh.  
  
“Dean!” Sam fussed, but he was laughing, too.  
  
Dean pounced his prey in front of the TV, hoisted her wiggly body over his head, then brought her low enough to take a bite of her ribs. She giggled and fought, but to no avail. He feasted on her belly and plagued her with zerberts until she started to hyperventilate.  
  
“All right. All right, kid. Breathe.” Dean slung her over his shoulder like a bag of onions and carted her toward the kitchen. “Sam, you want some of this? Or should we put it in the sauce?”  
  
“You two animals could set the table and the big one could grate some asiago.”  
  
“Aye aye, capitan.” Dean set Luna on her feet.  
  
“No. Put me on Daddy’s head, so I can be the little chef.”  
  
“Little chef?”  
  
Luna launched into full detail about some movie with a cooking rat. It sounded gross, but they promised to search the homeowner’s collection after dinner.  
  
Thankfully, there were no rat-chef movies on the shelves, so Dean cued up Beauty and the Beast as a compromise, while Sam put away the leftovers.  
  
“Luna,” Sam's voice rang out, somewhere between a reprimand and a gasp.  
  
Dean turned in time to see her pressing the Sam-doll and Dean-doll together in a paper kiss.  
   
***  
   
Since Sam had single-handedly made dinner and still had work left, Dean got Luna to bed.  
   
An hour later, he leaned on the frame to Sam’s door. “Those glasses are sexy as fuck.”  
   
Sam smiled, but didn’t look up from his laptop. “She down?”  
   
Dean sauntered over, sat on the side of the bed, and ran a hand over Sam’s bare chest. “Down and out.”  
   
“Can you give me another ten minutes here?”  
   
“Nope.” Dean closed the laptop and placed it on the bedside table.  
   
Sam made a frustrated expression, but couldn't make the edges stick. He peeled his glasses from his nose and put them on Dean’s face. With his chin on his knuckles, imitating the Thinker, Dean asked, “Do I look smart?”  
   
“You know there are different types of intelligence?”  
   
“That sounds like something guidance counselors say to dumb kids.”  
   
Sam pursed his lips, preparing a counter argument.  
   
“Relax.” Dean smiled. “Your brain’s big enough for the both of us.”  
   
“And you’re stubborn enough.”  
   
“Damn straight.” Dean shed his clothes like a snake, peeled the sheet from his prey and stalked over its delicious, firm body.  
  
Sam spread his knees, inviting him in. When they were slotted together, warm and hard, he said, “Dean, you’re smart.”  
   
“I’m not going to argue about it.” He rutted against Sam for a while, working up a sweet rhythm before he sat up and took a dick in each hand.  
   
When Sam threw back his head and groaned, Dean clamped down on his Adam’s Apple, sucking until Sam gave him another low moan. He licked up to his ear, tugged on his lobe and whispered, “Hey.”  
   
“What?” Sam’s smile was audible.  
   
“I’m going to fuck you.”  
   
“Then get to it.”  
   
Dean plunged his tongue into that wide open mouth and Sam gripped his ass, crushing them together.  
   
A patient man might have taken more time to open him up, but once Sam was rocking back on two of Dean’s fingers, crying out to be fucked, Dean gave up all pretense of being anything other than what he was: a wound up teenager, horny out of his mind. Sam growled low as Dean pushed into him. Their damp skin slid together slippery and hot. Sam closed his arms all the way around him, hooked his ankles behind Dean's back, sighing at each pull out and rumbling as Dean drove in again.  
   
He squeezed his eyes shut, hips driving harder, body coiling tight as a spring as Sam clenched him, shuddered and cried out his climax. Dean pulled out and spilled himself on Sam’s chest. He quivered and clutched Sam's hips, riding out the final tremors with a relieved chuckle.

Sam's finger trailed through both of their slick where it pooled in the grooves between his muscle. Dean caught the hand on its way to Sam’s mouth.  
   
“I want to taste you.”  
   
Dean couldn't allow that and shook his head.  
   
“We can get re-tested tomorrow, okay?” Sam offered. “And then we’ll know.”  
   
Dean scoffed and dropped beside Sam on the bed. So far as he knew, there wasn't a test for demon contamination. He accepted the wet wipes to clean himself and gave them back dirty when Sam held out his hand.  
   
“I’m going to build you a house made of popsicle sticks and super glue,” Sam blew his ridiculous fantasy into the darkness.  
 A smile spread over Dean's face as a heavy hand rested low on his belly, the pinky toying with his pubes. “You going to live in it?”  
   
“You bet.”  
   
Sam smiled against his cheek. “And I’m going to put broccoli and garlic in the garden and feed it to you all day, so you can fuck me every night.”  
   
Dean was asleep within minutes, grinning at the vision Sam had planted in his mind.  
   
He was awake again an hour later with Luna at the foot of the bed. Her floppy goose hung over her arm.  
   
“Honey,” Sam groaned.  
  
Dean patted the mattress between them. Sam rolled out of bed and pulled on pajama pants while Dean snaked into his boxers under the covers.  
Once she was situated, Luna squirreled and rolled about, draping her legs over Sam’s chest and pressing her forehead against Dean’s.  
  
“Once upon a time,” he began and slid his arm under her head.  
  
“You smell funny.”  
  
“Do you want to hear this?”  
  
She hushed.  
   
Dean continued. “Once upon a time, there was this princess.”  
  
“And two kings.”  
  
“In a land of silence and sleep,” Sam slurred.  
  
“It was dark all the time.”  
  
“And the people were scared,” Luna said and snuggled closer to Dean’s chest.  
  
He rubbed her little shoulder and kissed her forehead. “Then, a very wise man discovered that the reason it was dark all the time was because someone had gobbled up the sun. So, he suggested that the royal surgeon chop open every single --”  
  
“Dean,” Sam cut him off.  
  
“Right. So, anyway, one day, the princess laughed so loud and she opened her mouth so wide that it lit up everything.”  
  
Luna gasped. “The princess ate the sun?”  
  
“Yep. And nobody had to be scared anymore as long as the princess was laughing.”  
  
“And the two kings lived happily ever after.” Sam tucked his hand between Dean's ribs and his arm, blanketing them both.  
  
“Yeah.” Dean agreed. “They all did.”  
  
  
***  
   
Dean beat the table like it was a drum while he taught Luna the words to 500 Miles. Sam was in the middle of flipping a coconut flour pancake when his phone rang.

It didn’t take long for Dean to stop singing and watch Sam pace the kitchen. When Sam covered his mouth with the hand not holding his spatula, Dean gravitated toward him, inquiring with narrowed eyes. By the time Sam put down the phone, Luna was clutching to Dean’s leg, both staring at him with curiosity and concern.  
   
“Denver. Police. Castiel is in critical condition.”  
   
“What the hell is he doing in Denver?”  
   
Sam huffed out a shaky breath. “Apparently, trying to ...” He glanced down at his daughter. “Daddy’s going to have to go … a little sooner than planned, honey.”

They stood in a bubble of stopped time. Dean took a step and closed the gap between them. He wrapped an arm around Sam, the other covered Sam's hand on Luna's back. She looped herself around each of their legs and they all clung to each other until the quiet was shattered by the acid stink of burnt coconut followed closely by the screeching smoke detector.  
   
Sam smiled sadly at his precious little family and reached over to move the pan to a cool burner. He cupped Dean’s face with both hands and drew him close enough to press their foreheads together. “He doesn't have anybody else, Dean. You know that.”  
   
“You want me to come?”  
  
Sam whispered, “I always want you to come.”  
  
Dean's expression didn't change.  
  
“This isn't your problem.”  
  
  
***  
  
  
Coach Winchester stood with his arms folded over his chest, supervising while Dean worked on the Impala’s crankshaft. “How was the trip?  
  
“Cool,” Dean answered, keeping his voice even while his guts churned. “Luna’s a great kid.”  
  
“And Sam?”  
  
Dean pretended not to hear. He’d been dreading this conversation the entire week since his return.  
  
“No funny business?” Coach asked.  
  
“No.”  
  
“No, sir.”  
  
Dean stood up to look the old man in the eye. “No, sir.”  
  
“You mean to tell me, the whole three weeks you were down there, he didn't try to --”  
  
“Sam is … He’s in Colorado with his husband, right now.” Internally, Dean bristled at the words, but he waved his arm, as if pointing the way for the coach to go see for himself. “We're still friends, you know, me and Sam. He just took me down there to meet Luna because he was scared out of his mind to do it alone and Castiel’s no good with kids.”  
  
Every word of that was true and still the coach scraped at the scruff on his chin and said, ”You expect me to believe--”  
  
“Coach, if I say nothing happened...”  
  
The old man nodded. “Sam is a lost cause. I expect better from you. As long as you’re under my roof, I’m not going to tolerate--”  
  
“Sir.” Dean’s nostrils flared as he stared into John Winchester’s hard, dark eyes. “Sam is my brother. I didn’t know that before. Now, I do. I wouldn't fuck my brother, okay? I'm not sick like that.”


	41. Chapter 41

JULY 1  
  
Sam stared at the bottom of the page where one blank signature line was keeping him from the rest of his life.  
  
“I agreed to three days, for you.” Castiel tossed the pen at him. “I’m not doing this indefinite treatment bullshit.”  
  
“You know, the doctor has signed off on involuntary commitment and I’m trying not to do that. I’m trying to get your consent here, Castiel, because I think in the long run it’ll be better for you, if you know that you need this.” Sam dropped the pen on top of the paperwork on Cas’ breakfast tray. “Just sign it, Castiel?”  
  
“So you can leave me here to rot?”  
  
“So you can get the help you need.” Sam leaned forward in the bedside chair and held his ex's cold hand. “The right meds, the right therapy. This is why we got married. So you could get help.”  
  
“It’s why you did it.” Castiel tore away.  
  
Sam wiped a hand over his head. He’d seen the expense from Delta airlines on the credit card he left with Castiel and immediately drawn the connection between the flight to Denver and Castiel’s former lover who was buried near his Rocky Mountain birthplace. San had assumed that Castiel would visit the man’s grave, not dig his own and lay in it with a pistol. “Cas. You can't do what you did and not expect people to --”  
  
“I don't want to die, Sam.” Castiel breathed in and blew out a loud gust. "I guess part of me …  I couldn't stop ... myself”  
  
Sam eased back in his seat. Reasoning with this madman had always come close to driving him insane, as well.  
  
Castiel gestured at Sam’s face. “I can’t believe you let him hit you?”  
  
“I already told you that it was my fault.”  
  
“So, you ran into his fists, repeatedly?” He smirked at his own bad joke. “Let me guess. You wouldn't give him money?”  
  
“I asked him to do it, okay?” Sam’s chair scraped across the parquet floor as he stood.  
  
“To hit you?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Castiel’s eyes narrowed in disbelief, but only for a moment before he laughed. “That’s my sick little puppy ... Jesus, do you let him fuck you, Sammy?”  
  
Sam crossed his arms over his chest and focused out of the window, hiding his flushed face.  
  
“You do. You let that kitten nail you. Unbelievable, Sam.”  
  
“Why?” Sam’s plan to ignore Castiel plummeted to the ground. “Why is that unbelievable? You like it, why can't I like it?”  
  
“So, you're a bottom now, all of a sudden, for this boy?”  
  
“I’m ... not going to have this conversation with you, Castiel.”  
  
“Is that why you want him?”  
  
“You know what?” Sam’s palms met before his face in supplication to whatever deity would listen. “Right now, all I want is for you to sign this and --”  
  
“I’m not crazy.”  
  
“I didn’t say that,” Sam said. “You’re … troubled. And you need help.”  
  
“I’m telling you. I didn’t,—”  
  
“Castiel, please. I can’t …” Sam inhaled between his hands. “There is nothing more I can do for you, except be here, as a friend.”  
  
“You mean be in Missouri, with your little brother.”  
  
Outside of the window, patients in plain clothes strolled with green clad employees across the idyllic campus. They seemed to be enjoying relaxed conversations and the fresh mountain air. One woman was even laughing. The building was an early 20th century brownstone, a modern classic. From the outside looking in, this place could be a spa. According to Sam’s research, they offered the fifth-rated psychiatric care in the nation. “I can’t do more than this. I don’t know what else you want from me.”  
  
“You are full of shit.” Castiel pressed the zero on the phone beside his bed.  
  
A woman’s voice piped over the speaker. “How can I help you, Mr. Novak?”  
  
“I want this brotherfucker out of here.”  
  
“Castiel, calm down,” Sam said, gazing at the ceiling as if the hand of God would reach through and fix this broken man.  
  
Cas ripped the telephone out of the jack and hurled it. Sam dodged and it clipped the wall. In that same moment, Castiel stood and leapt from the bed onto his back, clawing at his head.  
  
By the time the nurse arrived, Sam had pinned the raving man’s hands above his head on the bed. Castiel chomped at the air between them, screamed and suddenly went still. He closed his eyes and dropped his head aside to moan. “Castiel, stop it or let me die.”  
  
Sam released his wrists and backed away. This man had put him through Hell, but he’d never spoken to himself that way. Sam covered his mouth and made space for the orderlies to restrain and sedate.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Jo was sitting on the couch with her stupid boyfriend and Dean could not resist the temptation to smack the back of Kyle’s head as he passed.  
  
“Idiot,” Jo called after him.  
  
That frigging band boy wouldn’t dare mouth off at a ball player. Dean turned to address Kyle directly. “Control your female.”  
  
Jo gave him the finger, and in case of misinterpretation said, “Fuck you.”  
  
“JoAnna!” Her mother shouted from the kitchen.  
  
Dean laughed silently and pointed at which Jo mouthed, ‘You asshole.’  
  
He shouldn’t have picked on her, especially when Jo was still pissed about his parents offering her a two hour curfew extension, on the condition that she hung out with Dean. Considering that he had no curfew at all, it was salt in a fresh wound. Usually, Dean came and went when she did, to keep the peace.  
  
Once they were on the move, Jo and Kyle rode in the backseat of the Impala with Garth, while his improbably cute cousin, Chloe took shotgun. The moment the girl’s bangled arm reached for the radio Dean gave his friend the fish eye through the rear view mirror. Garth’s response was two goofy thumbs up. Dean shook his head and turned the key. Matchmakers.  
  
They spread their blankets on the lawn at the park and Jo perched in Kyle’s lap with her fingers carding through his hair like an orangutan. What would Coach Winchester have to say about that? Dean was no cockblocker, but Jo was slumming hardcore with this moron.  
  
As Dean and Garth marched back to the car for the cooler of sodas, he wrapped his hand around Garth’s needle neck. It may have looked like a best-friendly gesture, but Dean squeezed until Garth’s skinny shoulders hunched up in pain. “Aaaah. What’d I do?”  
  
“Nothing,” Dean said. “Thanks for the gift basket.”  
  
“What are you talking about?” Garth squirmed, but Dean gave him no quarter.  
  
“Your cousin. At least you’ve quit talking about the homo thing.”  
  
“First of all, your language is thirty different kinds of offensive,” Garth said. “Gay, homosexual, queer. Not homo. Secondly, you can’t call a girl a gift basket.”  
  
Dean smiled. “It’s like you hand delivered her to welcome me home.”  
  
“That’s really freaking sexist, Dean.”  
  
Garth sounded like Sam and Dean started to tell him he was being a bitch. But that’s what he called Sam. It was a weird thing to be sentimental about and an even weirder pet name. Dean shook the thought of Sam out of his head.  
  
By the time they returned to the others, Kyle was rubbing his clumsy paws all over Jo’s back. She flipped her braid and leaned forward, granting him full access. An involuntary spasm took over Dean’s hand and made him slap the back of that loser’s head again.  
  
“You’re such a moron.”  
  
An orchestral version of The Star Spangled Banner blasted through the loudspeakers and Garth joined Kyle in standing with their hand over their hearts.  
  
“Sit down, you goofballs.”  
  
Instead Garth screeched along to the music. “And the rocket’s red glare…”  
  
“He always been like this?” Dean asked Chloe.  
  
She laughed and leaned against his shoulder like he’d asked her to. It was less of a playful nudge, more of a semi-permanent arrangement. Dean didn’t complain.  
  
Sam was over there, again, letting Castiel play damsel in distress, racing around, trying to slay all of his immortal dragons. Dean had fucking dragons, too, but he kept them to himself.  
  
Garth grinned over his shoulder. Jo eyed them, then turned her eyes to heaven as the first firework broke the sky.  
  
A minute later, Dean’s phone buzzed. He took that as an excuse to shift and pull it from his pocket. At least Chloe could take a hint and sat up straight.  
  
SW: Watching at the school?  
  
DS: Bercham  
  
SW: With?  
  
DS: Garth  
  
Which was true.  
  
SW: They’re great over there. Make you half deaf, though  
  
DS: How's things out there?  
  
SW: Working themselves out. Home real soon  
  
Jo must not have been impressed by the show. She was busy watching Dean like he owed her money.  
  
SW: Miss you  
  
DS: GTG  
  
   
  
***  
  
  
Sam sighed, put down his phone and glanced over at Castiel, so peaceful in sleep. Open on his thighs, Sam’s laptop created an illusion of productivity.  
  
On the wall-mounted flat screen, fireworks blossomed over the skyline of the nation’s capital. The sun was just finishing its descent behind the mountains outside of the Castiel’s window.  
  
In one of Sam’s first memories, he sought solace from the oppressive noise in his mother’s  arms and the scent of her perfume. She’d whispered and hummed until he was ready to open his little eyes and take in the magnificent lights that splashed across the sky like magic flowers.  
  
He picked up his phone again and wrote:  
  
SW: Wish I was there making fireworks with you.  
   
  
*****  
  
  
Chloe whispered into Dean’s ear. “You want to go for a walk or something?”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
She stood and offered a small hand. He let her help him to his feet and dusted off his pants. As they wandered away from the others, she twined a slender arm with his and said, “Your sister gives me the full on creeps.”  
  
Dean didn’t bother to correct her about who Jo was supposed to be to him. Instead, he said, “I can see that.”  
  
“Are you two, like, twins?”  
  
“We’re close and she’s … an intense person.”  
  
“So, is she going to kill me if I kiss you?”  
  
Dean’s arms closed around her waist to keep his balance as she pressed her chest to his. If Sam had been there…  
  
But Sam wasn’t there. Sam was with Castiel, probably holding him, letting that freak cry into his shirt. Sam’s gargantuan hands were probably rubbing up and down his back, in the name of comfort.    
  
Chloe was soft and warm as she blinked up at him, round face and fairy features illuminated by a red flare in the sky.  
  
Sam wasn’t just with another guy. He was married to a whole other person. And that was fine. Dean wasn’t trying to tie him down. They were both free to do what they wanted.  
  
Chloe tilted her head back, thick, sandy hair (darker and longer than Jo’s, but too similar not to compare) dusted his wrist. He leaned and pecked her with the same passion as Mildred smooching her foundling Chihuahua, George.  
  
Chloe laughed, then propped on her tiptoes to give him a taste of what she’d had in mind. Dean leaned back, maintaining the space. “You sure you want to—“  
  
She split the difference and thrust her tongue between his lips. Dean held her tight, shut his eyes, and went along for the ride. His stomach sank for a moment and then soared. Whatever him and Sam were doing had nothing to do with this.  
  
He let loose and dove in with full gusto, stroking the inside of Chloe cheek with his tongue, sucking gently on hers until she was moaning into his mouth and clutching his jacket. Dean breathed through his nose and kissed the fuck out of that girl.  
   
  
***  
  
  
It was more than hour since Sam sent that pitiful message. He would have given anything to be able to delete it.  
  
Dean hadn’t answered yet, but he was with his friends. That was to be expected. The kid wasn’t the type who would sit somewhere staring at his phone. Unlike Sam, who spent the rest of the night with his cell in his palm, watching the Fourth of July on television, in a psychiatric hospital.


	42. Chapter 42

Both Coach and Mrs Winchester were sitting in the living room. He didn't address either by name when he stepped in and asked, "Is it cool if I take the car?"

"I don't see why not." That was always her answer.  
  
Coach replied without looking up from his paper, "Where you headed?”  
  
That wasn’t surprising either. They both hated when he asked one of them for something he thought the other would decline. Asking both prevented that accusation later and while the car technically belonged to the coach, Dean needed Mrs. W to be a buffer.  
  
He could have easily said Garth's or Chloe's, for that matter. But he was sick of liying like an ashamed little kid, so he gambled on the truth and concealed his bated breath. "Over to Sam's."  
  
"What are you going to do over there?” Coach’s eyes remained on the sports section on his knee.  
  
At least he wasn’t freaking out.  
  
"He got some kind of new table or something. Wants me to help him put it together."  
  
Mrs. Winchester watched them like a tennis match.  
  
"Take Jo," Coach replied as his daughter crossed the living room.  
  
She looked up with wide eyes. "What?"  
  
"Sure," Dean answered casually, calling the bluff. "You want to help me and Sam put together a table?"  
  
“Ew.”  
  
"Tough. You're going." Coach’s glare was so firm Jo didn't bother with arguing.  
  
She only rolled her eyes. “What? Right this second?”  
  
   
  
***  
  
  
Dean didn't complain about Jo’s soft-pop-crap radio station. He scowled at her stupid flip flop on the dashboard tapping along to the godawful music, but again, he didn’t utter a word.  
  
"Is there anything I should know?"  
  
"Like?" Dean merged onto the highway.  
  
"Like, are you two still ..."  
  
"No.” Dean clicked on the turn signal. “Not still. More like again."  
  
She shook her head and turned away from him, as if there was something great outside of the passenger window, or something disgusting in the car.  
  
"Look,” Dean said. “Last time I checked, you’ve never done it. So, you have no idea--”  
  
“You don’t know what I’ve done.”  
  
He looked over, searching for her tells. No hair flip. No lip chew. Holy shit. “You let that geek fuck you?”  
  
“No.” Her head snapped around. “I fuck him.”  
  
Probably true, but still. “Your dad know?”  
  
“‘Course not.”  
  
“You use protection?”  
  
“Shut up.” She flipped him off.  
  
Dean rolled back his shoulders, tried to bite his tongue and failed. “You know, you could do a hell of a lot better than a tuba player.”  
  
“Better tuba than football.” Jo clicked off the radio with her big toe. Fucking brat. "You know I don’t care if you like guys. But why Sam?"  
  
"I honestly don't know. Okay?”  
  
Dean parked. Jo followed him up the walkway, checking out everything like she was planning to rob the place.  
  
“You never been here?”  
  
“When would I have been here, Dean?”  
  
He tugged the end of her braid. “Relax. We’re not going to do anything with you here, all right?”  
  
The door opened and the smile slid from Sam’s face at the sight of his sister. Jo's expression wasn’t any warmer.  
  
"What the hell is wrong with you two?” Dean gave Sam a small shove. “Sam. This is Jo. JoAnna, this is your fucking brother, Sam."  
  
“Hey.” Sam spared the greeting like he was being charged per syllable.  
  
Dean followed him all the way into the living room before they realized that Jo was still standing in the hall with her arms folded. Dean stuck his head back out to glare. "What?"  
  
"I’m not going to crash your little 'table-building’ party." She punctuated with obnoxious finger quotes.  
  
"The parts are in the dining room,” Sam said and rolled his eyes.  
  
Let the bitch-off begin.  
  
"You boys have fun with that. Or whatever you do.” Jo held out her hand. “Keys."  
  
"Your dad would kill me."  
  
"For letting me drive or for that?" She nodded in the direction of Dean's hip.  
  
He hadn't registered how close Sam was standing behind him or that he’d slipped a thumb into one of Dean’s belt loops. He threw an elbow into Sam’s chest and snaked away.  
  
"So, we’re all dead meat or we're all fine." Jo wiggled her fingers until Dean handed over the keys. "Good doing business with you."  
  
Once her footsteps had faded from the stairwell, Dean shook his head and closed the door. “Sheesh. That girl.”  
  
"Why'd you bring her?"  
  
"So that I could come see you without your dad busting a gasket."  
  
“I can't stand the way she looks at you."  
  
"She was probably about to throw up." Dean started toward the kitchen and this alleged table.  
  
Sam caught his arm.  
  
Dean eyed the fingers fisted around his bicep. “Don’t do that.”  
  
It took a moment for Sam to uncurl them, his chest still heaving as he forced breath through clenched teeth.  
  
Dean patted his arm. "Come on. Let’s build this thing.”  
   
  
***  
  
   
  
Silently stewing, Sam followed Dean into the living room. He’d already brought out his tools and confirmed that all the pieces were present. Without asking for anything, he began to assemble it. He hadn’t actually required assistance.  
  
"So, you're just going to be a bitch the rest of the time I'm here?"  
  
Sam laid the legs at the proper corners of the tabletop, biting his tongue until he could no longer stop himself. "If I don't like something you do, I'm a bitch?"  
  
"If you start pouting and stop talking to me, then, yeah. You're being a bitch."  
  
"You know how I feel about that word."  
  
"You know I don't care."  
  
Sam pursed his lips. “I haven’t seen you in a week and you bring her?”  
  
"That face? That's a bitch face," Dean said. “Jo is your sister. She’s … our sister.”  
  
Sam’s mouth twitched, but he took a deep breath and pointed. "Hand me the screwdriver? Please."  
  
“So, now I'm your nurse?”  
  
“Oh, my God” Sam threw up his hands and marched from the room.  
  
It took a minor miracle and an hour of needless bickering, but Sam stepped back with his hands on his hips. More impressive than the table was the fact that neither of them had murdered the other while they put it together.  
  
Sam tracked Dean’s quiet, shoeless footsteps from the bathroom into the kitchen, but hadn't anticipated the warmth against his back or the arms slithering around his chest. He smiled and melted into the embrace. Dean didn't rest with affection, but let his hands creep south until Sam stopped the wandering fingers. "Don't you want to eat? I thought we'd break in the table.”  
  
“That's what I'm trying to do." Dean cupped Sam’s crotch.  
  
"I've got..." What was the name of the food in the oven?  
  
Dean was on his toes, latched onto the side of Sam’s neck.  
  
“You all clean for me?” His fingers rolled down Sam’s chest in smooth strokes.  
  
Sam nodded.  
  
“That’s good.” Dean coaxed him out of his pants and slid the shirt over his head.  
  
Sam reveled in the cold wooden surface beneath him, Dean’s hands and breath hot behind him. Goosebumps bloomed over his skin like flowers as Dean peppered kisses over his ass and down his scarred thighs.  
  
“I'm not kissing your feet.”  
  
Sam smiled at the little idiot and his mouth. Then he sucked in a breath as Dean palmed, kneaded, parted and spat.  
  
"Do that again."  
  
"You like that?" Dean asked with a cocky smirk dripping from his voice.  
  
"No, I hate it."  
  
Dean spat again. Massaged with what felt like a thumb, blunt and firm. And that was good. But nothing compared to the tongue sliding up the full length of his crack, flickering at his asshole, sliding into him, rigid and wet  
  
Sam’s fingers spread, elbows locked as he pressed his chest up and his ass back for more.  
  
Dean’s zipper whispered open. His lover hovered over him, ran a palm down trembling legs. A spark ripped at Sam's chest as the head of Dean’s cock breached his hole. Sam had cleaned and stretched himself, but this was living flesh piercing him, Dean’s hands on his hips, then one on his shoulder, a firm grip on the back of Sam’s neck, a hand mashing his face into the freshly polished wood. Wet-hot breath on his ear as Dean sank into him, filled him, claimed him. “You want to be my bitch, Sam? Is that what you want?”  
  
Sam’s body shuddered an affirmation. Sam's boy collapsed onto his back, panting and clutching Sam's arm. “You got me so fucking close.”  
  
Sam tried to slide his hand down to touch himself. but Dean clamped on his tricep, pinning him. Sam conceded and groaned at the brunt of hips thrusting once, twice, three times before Dean had to stop himself again. "Fuck, Sam. You’re so fucking … "  
  
He reached around and grabbed Sam’s shaft in his death grip. Too much pain in the way Dean pleasured himself and by extension, Sam. Laid out, stripped bare and braised over his brand new dining room table, Sam squeezed his eyes shut and pleaded, "Make me come."  
  
That was all it took for Dean to lose it. He thrashed like something wild caught in a trap, fucking hard and fast and jerking Sam's cock with even less finesse.  
  
A vicious wave of pleasure crashed over Sam and as he shouted, Dean stilled.  
  
“No!God,no!Don't stop!"  
  
The kid renewed his onslaught. Tension rising to the brink of unbearable, until Sam cried out at the flash of white singeing his body. He quivered through his orgasm, folding his lips under his teeth to keep from startling Dean again.  
  
When he pulled out, Sam couldn't have moved under gunpoint. He lay there, hot and cold, entrance hanging open and hollow. Tremors still racing over his limbs as he turned his head enough to see Dean watching him.  
  
Standing there, mesmerized before he dropped to his knees.  
   
For a moment, Sam thought he would eat his own spunk out of Sam's ass. Not that it would have bothered him. It would have been a level of filth he never anticipated out of this sometimes-suddenly-squeamish kid.  
  
Instead, Dean's hands traveled from his thighs to his ankles, gripping them and lifting them from the ground so that Sam was dangling in the air. Then he asked, ”You ever shave?"  
  
   
***  
  
  
Sam chuckled at Dean's closed eyes and the obscene moans that accompanied every bite. He seemed almost reluctant to swallow. "You make this?”  
  
"You like it."  
  
"No. I hate it." Dean licked the marinara from his lips. "Smart ass."  
  
Sam mirrored the action and touched a thumb to his mouth. "Do you like this?"  
  
Dean's head tilted back and forth. "Not sure."  
  
"You keep looking. I think you like it."  
  
"Yeah. I guess so.” Dean shrugged and licked his lips again. “What's it feel like?"  
  
"Have you never worn lipstick?"  
  
Dean shoveled in a fresh forkful of pasta. "What do you fucking think?"  
  
"That's easy to remedy, if you want to try it."  
  
"Hell, no. I don't want!"  
  
"Okay." Sam shrugged and dabbed his mouth on the cloth napkin, examining the smudge of ‘Dahlia’ red. "Where did you get it? The makeup."  
  
"Your mom."  
  
"She gave it to you?"  
  
Dean laughed. "No."  
  
Sam rolled his sticky lips together. The sensation was odd, though not unpleasant. "So, does this mean you miss women?"  
  
"What do you mean miss them? They're fucking everywhere."  
  
Sam shouldn’t have asked; he wasn’t going to like an honest answer. He put down his napkin and stood to go in the kitchen. "You want more cheese?”  
  
"Nah. I'm good," Dean answered through a mouthful of food.  
  
Sam gripped the counter and took a deep breath, the exhale coming out shakier than he would have liked. What was he stressing about? Dean was there, with him. Not somewhere with Jo or any other girl. Sam had never worn makeup before, except as a gag, but it was fine. Fun, even, in a way.  
  
He jumped as Dean stepped behind him, slipped his hands under Sam's t-shirt and pulled it over his head.  
  
"Again?”  
  
“That okay with you?” He was still chewing.  
  
Sam's eyes flicked to the dining room where Dean’s third helping sat half-eaten. “Um ... aren't you going to finish?"  
  
"I'll get a doggie bag." Dean unbuttoned Sam's jeans. "There's something I forgot to do. Plus, I like it when you’re barefoot and naked around here."  
  
Once Sam was undressed, Dean stepped back and surveyed. He tilted his head, admiring like he was preparing to paint a portrait of Sam, nude with his face slathered in drag makeup. Sam leaned back against the counter, allowing the kid an eyeful. His cock twitched under the scrutiny, eyebrows raised in inquiry.  
  
"I just want to see you." Dean palmed himself.  
  
Sam bit his waxy lip and continued to display, waves of heat licking over his chest. Dean huffed out a heavy breath, face distorting.  
  
"Problem?"  
  
Dean shook his head.  
  
"You look stressed out."  
  
"Nah, just..." He took out his phone. "I meant to do this earlier."  
  
Sam covered his cock and turned away. He’d been down this road before. "That's not a good idea."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Just..." Sam picked up his clothing and scrambled from the room.  
  
"Hey. I'm not sharing."  
  
Sam looked him in the eye. Had he told Dean no, about anything, ever? "Not the face, okay?"  
  
"That's the best part." Dean grinned.  
  
Sam smiled, but repeated, "Not the face."  
  
“Fine." Dean snapped a few, even dropping to his knees for a close up of Sam's cock. "You want to see?"  
  
“No.” Sam was stepping into his boxers when the knock came.  
  
Dean started towards it.  
  
"Can I get dressed first?"  
  
"She's your sister, man. What's the big deal?"  
  
"Does she see you undressed?"  
  
"Your parents would freak." Dean left and opened the door. “Hey, little girl."  
  
Sam stepped from the living room, buttoning his shirt. Jo’s eyes flicked to him, but she didn't step a toe over the threshold when she asked Dean, "You ready?"  
  
"Um. Yeah. Guess so.” Dean glanced at Sam. “Table’s done. Want to have a look?"  
  
“No, thanks,” Jo looked up the hall toward the elevator.  
  
Sam stepped behind Dean and wrapped an arm around his chest, nuzzling behind his ear. Dean squirmed, but Sam couldn't bring himself to let go until Jo saw him kiss Dean, even if it was only on the cheek. "Thanks for the help."  
  
Dean squared his shoulders and shivered like he was shaking off a bug. "Yeah. Any time."  
  
  
***  
   
  
“I’m surprised he didn’t pee on you,” Jo tossed the words over her shoulder as she led the way out of the building.  
  
“What?”  
  
“He’s like a fucking dog. Marking his territory.”  
  
“I’m not his --”  
  
“Whatever. You got…” Jo pointed to Dean's face.  
  
He pawed at his cheek. She shook her head, licked her thumb and wiped away what must have been a trace of lipstick on the corner of his mouth.

 


	43. Chapter 43

  
Sam tipped the plastic, aquamarine Buddha and watered his patchy, potted basil before he pruned a few leaves for dinner. The mushroom plants were more successful. A few heads already popped out of the sides of the planter that came with the kit. Technically, they aren’t a vegetable, but he didn’t know whether Dean would eat them, so they’d be served separately, perhaps in a coconut curry cream sauce. On Saturday, when Dean finally came around again.  
  
In no mood to see people’s faces, Sam had completed his work quota from home. Then he grabbed his sketch pad and a pencil and etched a still-life of basil flourishing, unlike his kitchen plant.  
  
On the next page, he drew a garden bursting with tomatoes and cucumbers with grape vines climbing over a shed. Between the rows, he placed a figure, who wasn’t Sam or Dean and wasn’t not either of them, with a basket over his arm to harvest whatever was ripe.  
  
  
***  
  
Dean clung to his white mug. His other arm spread across the back of the booth. Starbucks on KState’s north campus was the reporter's idea, and Dean made the best of it by scouting the rainbow of coeds parading in and out of the place while his coffee cooled.  
  
A petite, brown-skinned girl with a briefcase strode to his table. Long, black curls bounced over slight, but sturdy shoulders. Yoga strong, with a no-bullshit handshake like Jody. She hung her bag over the back of the chair before she sat down and faced him, terminal-diagnosis serious.  
"Thanks for taking the time to meet with me."  
  
”Yeah. Of course." It wasn't like he had a choice in the matter; Coach Winchester had told him to do it.  
  
The reporter got herself a drink, which gave Dean plenty of time to look her over. A tiny little thing - compact, but still curvy. Dressed like a professional. Dean would have believed if she’d said she worked for the Kansas City Star instead of The Collegian.  
   
"Mind if I record?"  
  
"Be my guest." Dean opened his arms as if he owned the place, conveying comfort he didn't feel. It wasn’t that long ago, less than a year, that his mother would have gone nuclear at the sight of his name in the paper. Now, he was supposed to give a full interview.  
  
She set up her phone between them and flipped open a notebook. “Did you get a chance to look around campus at all?”  
  
“Little bit. Coming in.” Dean checked the temperature on his coffee, still too hot.  
  
“So, as I’m sure your coach explained, this is a series Kansas State does on high school athletes in the region who are excelling to the point that the faculty here is already courting them.”  
  
Dean nodded as a couple of chatty blonde chicks entered the building.  
  
“You might already know, you’re the youngest this year. All the others are seniors.”  
  
He shrugged and had a drink, boiled tastebuds be damned. The pain brought him back to himself as he looked at the reporter. “What’d you say your name was?”  
  
“Oh, I’m sorry. Cassandra Robinson.” She offered her hand again.  
  
Dean grinned and shook it again. “Pleasure.”  
  
“Yeah. I don’t know why I always forget that.” She clicked and unclicked the end of her pen.  
  
“I’m not telling you how to do your job, but you came in here like you’re trying to cut a deal for the DA’s office.”  
  
“You are telling me how to do my job.”  
  
Dean raised his hands to show he meant no harm or offense. “If it were me, I’d come in like …” He stood and jogged over to the door, exited the Starbucks completely and re-entered, smiling with his hand stretched out well before he reached the table.  
  
Cassandra watched him, grinning reluctantly, as if she would rather hate his antics than be amused. “A third time?”  
  
“Humor me.”  
  
She obliged and shook his hand. He took it firmly between both of his palms. “Pleasure to meet you. Cassandra Robinson with the New York Times. We appreciate you taking time out of your busy schedule. Just want to ask you a few questions about your recent Super Bowl victory.”  
  
She blinked. “Post.”  
  
“What?” Dean asked, taking his seat again.  
  
“When you get your first ring, I’ll be working for the Washington Post on my way to the White House Press Corp.”  
  
“Okay.” Dean nodded and had a long swig of now-perfect coffee. “Black.”  
  
“Excuse me.”  
  
“Black, no sugar. Your first question.” He pointed at her notepad. “It’d be my first question.”  
  
***  
  
When Sam opened the door, Dean stood before him, drenched and pitiful as a drowning cat. It was raining hard enough that Sam had to close the windows to keep his floors dry.  
  
He pulled the boy through the door into a kiss and began to unbutton his sopping wet shirt. “How was your interview?”  
  
“Fine.” Dean watched Sam’s hands on his fly.  
  
“I know you were worried.”  
  
“I wasn’t worried.”  
  
“Okay.” Sam struggled with the waterlogged jeans, tugging them to Dean’s ankles. “Concerned.”  
  
“It was a piece of cake.”  
  
“Told you it would be.” Sam nuzzled Dean’s half-stiff dick. “Who’d you get? I used to know some of the reporters over there.”  
  
“Nobody from your day.” Dean steadied himself with a hand on Sam’s shoulder and stepped out of his pants.  
  
“Why? Because I don’t have feelings.”  
  
“What? I’m not calling you old.”  
  
Sam raised a brow, planted another kiss on the center of Dean’s cold chest before standing and walking away down the hall with the bundle of wet clothes.  
  
“Hey! That’s all you got for me?”  
  
Sam turned around, marched back to peck Dean’s lips, then returned to work. The moment Dean entered the laundry room behind him, the lights flickered.  
  
"Ooo. Black out sex."  
  
Sam bent over to toss the clothing into his front-loading dryer and Dean took full adventge, stepping behind,grabbing his hips and melding their bodies together.  
  
Sam stood and shut the door. “When’s the last time we had a conversation?”  
  
“Seriously?” Dean snaked his hands under Sam’s shirt. “You think I’m using you for your body?”  
  
“I’m just saying.”  
  
“We can talk about anything you want.” Dean pinched Sam’s nipples hard enough to make him squirm. “After I fuck you.”  
  
"Horny puppy,” Sam taunted, grinding his ass against Dean’s erection. “You know where I keep my candles?"  
  
"Think so."  
  
***  
  
Sam peeked over his shoulder to watch Dean’s naked ass as he walked away. The kid gave himself a firm smack and winked as Sam chuckled and turned on the dryer.  
  
By the time Sam made it back to the dining room, there were bed sheets spread over the new table with lamps, books and other heavy items weighing them down to keep them in place. An eerie light danced behind the makeshift curtain.  
  
Sam flicked on the light.  
  
"Cut that off," Dean shouted from beneath the table.  
  
Sam smiled and obeyed.  
  
"Now, get under here before I come get you."  
  
Sam crawled under the table, unable to wipe the grin from his face as Dean spread his arms like the innkeeper at Shangri-la. "You like?"  
  
"Until you burn down the house." Sam set the candles a few inches further from the fabric.  
  
Dean laughed and offered him a wine glass. “It’s water.” Then, he held it just outside of Sam's reach. "You have to get naked, too."  
  
"I have to?"  
  
"House rules,” Dean said. “Under here it's my domain."  
  
"Sovereign state of Dean?"  
  
"Exactly. Strip."  
  
Sam started to pull his shirt over his head.  
  
"Slow."  
  
"Tyrant."  
  
Dean leaned back on the sofa pillows, scratched his belly and curled the other hand behind his head. As Sam contorted to remove his pants in the confined space, Dean helped himself to a glass of not-water.  
  
"Are you supposed to be drinking?"  
  
"Concubines don't speak unless spoken to." He motioned with his hand for Sam to go on undressing.  
  
"Concubines?" Sam considered protesting, but peeled off his socks instead. "Good?"  
  
"Very." Dean smirked and finished his glass. "Pour me another."  
  
"You're getting carried away."  
  
Dean lifted his glass and Sam shook his head. He scratched his ear and huffed before he grabbed the bottle and poured Dean another half glass.  
  
"Stingy." Dean drained it. "You wearing eyeliner?"  
  
"Maybe." Sam smiled. ”You like it?"  
  
"Maybe. Come here. I need a closer look."  
  
Sam crawled to him and was rewarded with a long, languid kiss. Dean moaned into his mouth and curled his fist in his hair. "Lay down."  
  
Sam did as he was told. "Where's Jo?"  
  
"That's what you're thinking about right now?" Dean set down his glass.  
  
"Just trying to figure out how much time we have."  
  
"I told your parents I was sleeping at a friend's. Hope that's okay."  
  
"Of course." A spike of heat coursed through Sam at the prospect of keeping Dean up all night and waking next to him. He repeated, "of course."  
  
"Still getting used to the whole asking permission thing,” Dean said. "It's basically bullshit."  
  
"Except that you're using their car."  
  
He shrugged. "Close your eyes."  
  
"Why?" Sam narrowed them.  
  
"Because I said so."  
  
The moment his eyes shut, Dean tied a soft band of fabric around them. Sam smiled. "Can you be trusted?"  
  
"I guess you'll find out."  
  
Hot liquid splashed the center of sam’s chest and he shouted, sat bolt upright, hitting his head against the underside of the table. "What the..."  
  
Dean chuckled and placed a hand on Sam's shoulder to urge him to relax. He swatted Sam's hands away from the blindfold.  
  
"What the hell was that?"  
  
"Did it hurt?"  
  
"It still hurts." And Sam's heart rate was still elevated. He plucked at the hardening substance on his sternum. Wax.  
  
"Okay. Sorry. Guess I need to... how about this?"  
  
"Dean!!" Sam flinched, but this time the sting wasn't nearly as intense.  
  
Dean smoothed a hand over Sam's ribs. "That better?"  
  
Sam didn't answer as his mind raced. He was considering safewording out, except that they didn't have a safeword, and he'd had no idea Dean was planning to do anything like this. Castiel had liked to play with knives and blades when they first started dating, but Sam put an end to that the first time he bled.  
  
Dean kissed his jaw. "Do you like it?"  
  
"I don't know," Sam answered, breathless.  
  
"You want me to stop?"  
  
Sam opened his mouth. Since he had no answer to the question, he remained silent. The next drop pricked just below his navel and Sam sucked in a breath. Just as he was about to ask Dean to stop, a hand wrapped around Sam's cock. "Jesus Christ."  
  
"Stop?"  
  
"No." Sam exhaled.  
  
Wax bit into the skin just above his right nipple. He yelped and gasped, body spasming as Dean's warm mouth devoured him. "Oh, my God."  
  
Sam shuddered at the conflicting sensations. Dean only took him halfway, but it was perfect. With one hand, he worked the base of Sam's cock. The other hand pinched the hell out of a nipple. Despite Sam’s insistence on patience, the kid still had a tendency to treat like sex a race.  
  
"Fuck, Dean. Fuck." Sam moved his hand over Dean's to make him loosen his death grip.  
  
A flame broke out under his skin, balls tightened like they were being squeezed in a vice. Sam's breath hitched. Then Dean was gone. His hands, his mouth vanished without a trace or sound.  
  
"Dean?" Sam rasped and grabbed his cock.  
  
No reply. Nothing. He pulled off the blindfold to find Dean kneeling there, holding himself and grinning like the cat that ate all the canaries. His cock glistened in the candlelight, the tube of lube lay open beside him on the floor.  
  
"You little..." Sam sighed and dropped his head back onto the pillow.  
  
Dean laughed, took hold of Sam's ankles and brought his knees to his ears. He aligned himself and slowly drove in. Both of their mouths hung open, gasping for air. Sam's body burned. He clutched at Dean's arm, reached for his face, dragging him into a sloppy kiss.  
  
Once he was fully inside, Dean lowered himself to Sam's chest, breathing heavily, but otherwise still. "I want to last for you."  
  
Sam warmed at his words and smiled. That wasn't exactly the kid's strong suit. He soothed his hands down the sweat on Dean's back. "I love you."  
  
It was always a mistake. Sam wanted to say it constantly, daily, multiple times each day. He could count the times he’d worked up the nerve on one hand with fingers to spare. So far, Dean's reaction was always the same.  
  
The room was silent, save for the rush of their breath. Dean's heart, Sam’s heart pounding in tandem. Thunder rolled. Lightning surged through Sam’s veins. "I love you, Dean."  
  
The kid finished them both off without another word. Then, he fell asleep.  
  
Sam watched him for a while, breathtaking and golden by candlelight. A moment of inspiration struck him and he picked up the corkscrew from beside the bottle of wine that Dean had polished off alone. In the underbelly of the table, Sam carved:  
  
S+D  
  
For good measure, he chiseled a heart around them. He sighed and rested his head on Dean’s chest.  
  
  
***  
   
  
“You don't understand. I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am, let's face it. It was you, Charley.”  
  
Dean skipped the accent and just recited the damn thing, as if it had been him who had squandered his chance at greatness, conjuring the part of Sam’s story that depressed him most.  
  
When he was done, nobody said anything. The director screwed up his face and looked at the two ladies sitting on either side of him.  
  
This wasn’t Dean’s idea. If it was left up to him, he never would have thought to audition for the damn play. But it was easy extra credit in Speech, so what the hell.  
  
Dean had never even stayed anywhere long enough to give a shit about something like extra credit, but every time he showed Sam a decent test score, Sam rewarded him with “That’s my smart jock” and a blow job. It was impossible to ignore incentives like that, especially when he wasn't sure which part he liked more, the sex or the praise.  
  
Dean stood on the stage and waited for them to tell him it was over, sign his paper and let him go home.  
  
"First of all, congratulations on your win last night."  
  
"Thank you. Sir." Dean shifted his weight on his feet.  
  
He hadn't been nervous before. Even if they offered him a part, his schedule wouldn't allow him to take it, but his heart was beating in his throat just the same.  
  
“You all are undefeated, am I right?”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
The director kept looking him over like there was something wrong with him. “And I take it you love football.”  
  
“Yes, sir, I do.”  
  
The man nodded and made a note on the piece of paper before him. “Well, if you don’t mind me saying so, that’s too bad, because that was really fucking brilliant. Best one yet.”  
  
One of the ladies nudged his arm, probably for the profanity. Then she waved Dean’s form at him and sent him on his way.  
  
***  
  
Sam had been sitting in front of lentils and rice when the idea popped into his head. He’d been unable to deflate or subdue it, so 15 minutes later, he was in his car on the road to Lawrence.  
  
An hour after that, he was out there, under the lights, so close and so far away from the field. It was like coming home and being allowed no nearer than the front lawn.  
  
He eased in among the away crowd at the Gator’s home game, not rooting out loud for anyone. He hadn’t seen Dean in a week and apparently, the separation wasn’t good for his restraint. What Dean and John didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them and perhaps Sam would actually get to sleep, having seen the kid, even if from a distance.  
  
It wasn’t that he could actually see him from where he sat near the back of the bleachers. He could see Dean’s number (12) and hear the people around him jeering the Gator’s QB’s exceptional playing, bemoaning the punishment he was handing their team. Sam tried not to smile too wide whenever someone made a comment like that.  
  
Toward the middle of the third quarter, someone behind him called Dean a freak of nature. Sam clenched his teeth and fought back the reflex to turn around and shove the guy off his bench. Considering the context, it was a compliment.  
  
The huge trucker-looking guy in a baseball hat, who had spent the entire game hooting and booing, turned and said, “I say we go down there and tear that helmet off.”  
  
A flash of fire shot up Sam’s spine. It was hard to be inconspicuous while throwing punches. His fist curled anyway.  
  
“No kid’s got that kind of precision.” Baseball Cap continued. “Wouldn’t be surprised if it's a grown man.”  
  
“It's Winchester.” The man behind Sam responded.  
  
Sam scoffed out loud, the heat in his veins gone so chill he shuddered.  
  
“You think that’s his coaching?”  
  
“No,” Baseball cap said. “His program attracts that kind of talent. They might even be paying the family off. You know he knows people. Got those insider connections. How else do you think his kid made it as far as he did?”  
  
“Whatever happened to that guy?” The person on Sam’s other side chimed in.  
  
He held his breath and listened to these strangers who stank of McDonald’s and chewing tobacco talk about him.  
  
“I heard he couldn't hack it. Got out there and just folded.”  
  
“I thought it was an injury. Bad knees or something.”  
  
“Who knows? The point is, Winchester knows people. Probably shipped this kid in from Atlanta or somewhere he’s been playing with darkies the whole time.”  
  
“You mean from Mars. I’m telling you. I never seen no kid play like this.”  
  
  
***  
  
  
It was way too fucking loud in the house and the music was crap. Out on the patio, a few kids smoked while some guy strummed and sang a U2 song beside the bonfire. A gaggle of girls watched like he was made of sunlight.  
  
Dean had avoided his personal harem who wouldn’t stop chirping congratulations and tugging on his arm. He’d given the same slip to the posse of guys who seemed addicted to clapping him on the shoulder and telling him what a great game it had been.  
  
He stepped off the patio and strolled through the dark, tromping over damp grass down to a pond.  
  
Whoever’s hose this was, their parents had a shit load of money. How the hell had Dean wound up running with these people? Did it make him a sellout? Was this the fucking 1% everybody was always so pissed off about? Sam, his parents, all the coke-sniffing kids at this lame party. And Dean had just mellowed into this lifestyle, like he was born to be one of them and not just a dirty, vagrant, demon’s kid.  
  
Dean scrolled to Sam’s contact in the touch screen phone the Winchesters gave him. Sam’s number was marked by the impressive dick pic he’d saved there.  
  
DS: What are you up to?  
  
SW: My chin in numbers  
  
DS: What?  
  
SW: Accountant humor  
  
DS: That’s awful  
  
SW: How about you? Another win?  
  
DS: You know it  
  
SW: Smokin this season  
  
DS: Always and in all ways  
  
SW: Who’s cheesy now?  
  
DS: You  
  
SW: What’s up  
  
DS: What? I can’t just write you ‘cause I want to?  
  
SW: You could, but you don’t  
  
DS: Ouch. That hurts  
  
SW: Kind of, yeah. It does  
  
Chloe stepped out onto the patio, looking around with a red Silo cup in each hand. Dean’s moments were numbered.  
  
DS: Won’t be able to come by tomorrow  
  
Sam didn’t reply right away. In the time it took for Chloe to spot, there was still nothing from Sam, so Dean wrote:  
  
DS: Sorry  
  
He stuck his phone in his pocket, strolled back up to the house and nodded his gratitude as Chloe offered him a drink.  
   
  
***  
  
  
“Mr. Winchester, your spouse is a remarkably delicate, unique individ--”  
  
“We’ve filed for annulment,’’ Sam corrected, his emotions swinging hard between relief at speaking the words out loud and shame like what he would feel watching from the shore as a man drowns.  
  
Castiel would sink or swim. Sam couldn’t go down with him.  
  
“Oh…” the doctor said, saying nothing.  
  
Sam didn’t need this woman to tell him he was a selfish, heartless person. He was already aware.  
  
“That might explain…”  
  
His eyes glazed over as Dr. Reddy poured out the weekly update, anyway. Sam hadn’t spoken directly with Cas in three blessed months. He didn’t even want to know what was going on over there; it wasn’t his responsibility anymore. Once the paperwork went through, he’d be done with it. One hundred percent available for Dean and Luna.  
  
Sam stared ahead out of his windshield as the woman spoke on and on into his deaf ear. A male meter maid doled out tickets. A pigeon shat on the car in front of him. When there was silence on the other end, he said, “Thank you, Doctor.” and hung up the phone without having registered a word of what was said.  
  
He scrubbed a palm over his weekend stubble and climbed out of the car. He paid his meter with coins and let fifty pounds of stress roll off his shoulders as he entered the co-op.  
  
Fragrant bulk spices, organic produce, local products, as well as imported items all where they’d been before. The staff were all aggressively pierced, creatively inked, always engaged in unpretentious conversation. Charlie had turned Sam onto this place, and he shopped here almost exclusively. If he could roll out an air mattress in the inventory room and never leave, he would do it.  
  
A gorgeous tapestry adorned one bulging arm of the day manager, Chris. The artwork disappeared up his shirt sleeve and no doubt unfurled across his broad back. The meaning and detail was a mystery Sam couldn’t help but imagine unraveling, especially when the man stood so close and pointed at something on a shelf. Behind his wheat colored and often braided beard he was attractive, in that rugged, all of my ancestors were Vikings and even my mother had a beard, way.  
  
In that particular moment, though, Chris’ ass-length, blond ponytail reminded Sam of the girl Dean was leaning against in the parking lot immediately following his win the previous night. She’d looked enough like Jo for it to be conspicuous. But it wasn’t Jo. Sam had crept close enough to be sure. Dean hadn’t kissed her, but their bodies had been so close together, it was inevitable. Sam had waited for it like some voyeuristic creep, with his breath bated, stomach churning until she climbed into the Impala and Dean closed the door for her.  
  
He knew that Dean was driving Baby. He never asked Dean if he knew that John had bought the car to fix up and give to Sam. But he and his dad had never finished and now, Dean was driving some girl in Sam’s car and it was fine, because it had to be.  
  
If it wasn’t fine. It was fucked up. And Sam was already exhausted from all the fucked up with Castiel.  
  
“That’s a weird combo.” Viking Chris peeked down into Sam’s basket. “Am I looking at tofu, turnips and soy hotdogs?”  
  
“Yeah, I’m probably going to need the real thing.” Sam made a mental note to stop by a mainstream grocery to get hot dogs for Dean. It’d probably be the only thing in Sam’s trip down memory lane meal that the kid enjoyed.  
  
“What the hell are you making?” Chris smiled.  
  
“Uh … birthday dinner. For my … little brother.”  
  
“How old is he?”  
  
For a moment, Sam forgot that it was part of the co-op manifesto: customers here were friends, not strangers. He’d discussed topics as varied as Tolstoy and the bane and blessings of various types of fungi in this store.  
  
“Seventeen,” Sam answered. “Will be. Thursday. We’re having dinner on Saturday. If he can … He’s kind of busy with school and plays ball. That’s really demanding. Don’t see him a lot these days, so wanted to make something special.”  
  
Sam cleared his dry throat.  
  
“Kid’s got weird taste.” Chris pulled a glass jar from the shelf. “Ever try this stuff?”  
  
“Actually,” Sam exhaled the tension he’d worked up talking about Dean. “I’m wondering where I could find fresh catfish.”  
  
“For the same meal?” Chris’ gaze wandered briefly to one of his co-workers who grinned and gave him a thumbs up.  
  
“Hey, Sam,” she said.  
  
Sam waved with his free hand. “Hi, Carmen.”  
  
She clapped Chris on the shoulder and he shooed her away.  
  
Sam continued where they’d left off. “Preferably local.”  
  
“Um, sure. I can help you with that. Do you want to step into my office?”  
  
Sam’s mind was spinning in a dozen directions, so he obliged the unexpected invitation without protest.  
  
Chris’ keys rattled as he fumbled for the right one. “How long have you been coming here, Sam? I mean, shopping. I mean, at least since I’ve been managing and that’s what…” He wiped his arm across his forehead and finally managed to get inside.  
  
He stumbled into the small room, holding the door for Sam and closing it quietly behind him. “Bet you never thought you’d see the inside of this palace.” Chris’ eyes flickered over Sam’s mouth, to his crotch.  
  
Clarity dawned on Sam, though he should have seen it sooner. “You know what? I’m gonna…”  
  
“No. I mean, let me just fire up my computer.” Chris ducked behind his desk, looking up from time to time. “Couple years, right? That you’ve been coming here.”  
  
“About that. Yeah.”  
  
“And you always shop alone. Except that one time, you had a young guy in here with you.” Chris said. “Was that your brother? Probably. God, you two must be close. I thought … Never mind, I … It’s not like I’m watching you. I just happened to notice that mostly, it’s just you. Does that mean you live alone? Am I being creepy? Is it creepy to ask that? I’m sorry. I … I’m not good at this.”  
  
Sam glanced at the door. In his entire life, this had never happened to him.

"Would you ever ..."

No one normal had ever asked him out.

"You know, I understand if not. If you're not..."

He’d either wound up with people, or been cornered, or used them to hide.

"You know, if I ... Am I toally off base here?"

Sam froze, puffed out a tiny breath. ”I should …” He jerked an awkward thumb over his shoulder. “Got ice cream in here, so. Thanks for your help.”  
  
“Yeah. No problem. Any time.”  
  
 As Sam turned to close the door behind him, Chris dropped his face into his hands.

  
  
***  
  
   
Coach Winchester tossed another dry log onto the fire. “You did good today. Real tough out there.”  
  
“Thanks. Sir. It’s a lot of fun.” Dean rolled his right shoulder, still sore from toting the rifle all day.  
  
“Your brother never really took to it. I mean he can shoot and fight, but--”  
  
“It’s not really his --” Dean snapped his mouth shut.  
  
Was it a trap? A trick to get him to talk about Sam?  
  
The coach poked the fire with a long stick. “Look, Dean. I would much rather not have this conversation.”  
  
That made two of them. It was a safe bet that whatever topic was making the coach squirm wasn’t going to be any picnic for Dean either.  
  
“The more I think of it, the more I realize what an asshole I must be to get punished with a pair of homo sons.”  
  
Ice pierced Dean’s veins. “I’m not --”  
  
“Hold off a second.” The coach held up his hand. “I need to say this. Get it off my chest. I was just thinking, I’d rather die than let some guy … do the things Sam does--”  
  
“Sir.”  
  
“Has done to you. And I assume, he’s not the only one. Am I right?”  
  
Dean chewed his tongue until his mouth filled with warm, salty copper.  
  
“Which leads me to the conclusion, no matter what they pay you, that you must be able to tolerate the … you know the…” His gesture was mercifully non-graphic. “And maybe you like it. And if that’s even if a little bit true, that means, you’re at least a little bit gay. Am I right?”  
  
Since no one else was witness to this conversation but the trees, Dean could take off and hide behind one of them. Or climb and toss himself to his death.  
  
“Yeah. That’s what I figured.” Coach nodded, appearing to have accepted Dean’s silence as an answer. "Do you know who Ryan Martin is?”  
  
Dean managed to shake his pounding head.  
  
“Head coach at UCLA. Was on the horn a solid twenty minutes with him yesterday. You understand what I'm saying?"

"Yessir."

"Now, you may think you're going to go on Ellen and be the first --" Coach Winchester shook his head, unable to even say the words. "I'm telling you, nobody's wants that. Franchise owners, coaches. They don't give a shit about Ellen. When Ellen puts together a foot ball team, you let me know."

Dean nodded. He'd never even thought about that.

"School's are sniffing around you pretty hard and I’m going to tell you point blank, Dean, nobody wants a fag on their squad. Maybe some of those liberal arts schools will let a fruity kicker slide, but the QB? No fucking way.” Coach eyed him like an assassin. “Anybody asks you..."  
  
"There’s no place for that in football,” Dean spat out. “I know that. And I don’t like ... Sir. It’s ...I’d rather not talk about it."  
  
"That’s exactly right. You don’t talk about that shit, to anyone. Hear me?” Coach nodded. “Now, your sister says..."  
  
Dean had long since come to think of Jo that way. He didn't argue.  
  
“She says that Sam still looks at you like he wants you."  
  
That bitch. "She said that?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Dean blew air between his pursed lips. "I hadn't noticed that. I don't think so."  
  
"Yeah, well, he may not be over it."  
  
"He's just gonna have to be." Dean shrugged, and laughed, and hoped he didn’t have to say anything else.  
  
"Just watch out, okay? And let me know if he does or says anything inappropriate. I'll put an end to it."  
  
"Is that it?" Dean choked back the bile that always came before he barfed.  
  
“Actually, there is one more thing. Mary and I have been talking about this and…” Couch took a deep breath. “What would you think ... How would you feel about becoming a Winchester? Officially. You know, on paper. Mary and me, we’d have to adopt you, but ..."  
  
Dean's mouth was hanging open and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.  
  
"I mean, it's not Kennedy, but you know, it's your rightful name and … I know it doesn’t make up for…”  
  
"Wow. Shit." Dean rubbed his forehead. If this went on much longer, he was definitely going to throw up.  
  
"Not next week or anything. Just, you know, when you're ready."  
  
Dean nodded and breathed in through his nose to keep from completely losing his shit. Coach slapped his knee. "Come on. Let's see about bringing in something for dinner."  
  
“Like a deer?” Dean asked, eyes wide.  
  
Coach Winchester’s grin was rare. “I was thinking more like a trout. Hell of a lot easier to field dress.”  
  
Dean nodded again and watched the old man move toward his tent, rubbing his hands along his camouflage cargo pants.  
  
“Hey. Coach,” he said before he could stop himself. “What can you tell me about my mother? That I, maybe, don't already know.”  
  
Jody had said she was coming back. Had told Dean to be on the lookout, but he hadn’t seen or heard anything from her since Miami. He’d thought maybe she’d show up for his birthday, but that was stupid. Since when did she ever give a shit about that?  
  
The coach stood upright, looking him over, so obviously thinking over what to say next that Dean could almost hear the gears churning. “Your mother is …”  
  
“Was.”  
  
“A beautiful woman who loved you very much.”  
  
“That's it?” Dean kicked the sole of his boot through the edge of the ash.  
  
“What are you looking to hear?”  
  
“Anything, you know. Where she was from. Her folks. When'd you two meet? Literally, anything.”  
  
Coach Winchester took a step toward him. “I don't know what's supposed to come of this, Dean.”  
  
“I'm just trying to understand this fucking timeline.”  
  
The coach narrowed his eyes.  
  
“Sorry.” Dean stared up at the canopy of leaves, willing the oncoming tears to roll back into his skull. “Just…”  
  
“I understand that you’re still frustrated.”  
  
Dean kicked a rock, like a three-year-old. “I mean, Jo and I are practically the same age, right?”  
  
“Listen, Dean. Jody was ... extraordinary. What she ... the way she took care of you.”  
  
“It would have been better if she hadn't been alone.” Dean picked up and tossed a rock dead center into a tree.  
  
“I know. And I can't even begin to tell you how sorry I am … Words will never be enough."  
  
“Yeah.” Dean trudged off, wishing he could put a few thousand miles between himself and this dickhead.  
  
He’d ditched Sam for this crap, thinking he would get answers out of a guy who still hadn’t told his wife that Dean was his real kid.  
  
What kind of fucked up father pretends not to be your father so he can adopt you and become your father? So that’s where Sam got all the mindfuckery.  
  
Maybe if he wasn’t too pissed at being blown off, Sam would drive out to the middle of fucking nowhere and extract Dean from this nightmare.  
  
Pulling his phone from his jacket pocket, Dean confirmed that he still had no coverage. The coach had told him he might as well leave the damn thing at home. That was the way it was going to be all weekend.  
   
  
***  
   
  
Dean placed the envelope and the tickets back on the table. Their table. The one they’d built together. He smoothed his hand over the clean, white cloth Sam had covered it with for the occasion. Try though he might, Dean couldn’t bring himself to look very long into Sam’s eager eyes, almost caramel brown that night.  
  
“You should have talked to me first.”  
  
“It wouldn’t have been much of a surprise.”  
  
Dean scratched behind his ear. “I told Garth I would take him and his cousin to Topeka and probably, I guess, Jo and her stupid boyfriend might come.”  
  
“For your birthday?”  
  
Dean speared uneaten tofu with his fork. That stuff hadn’t stopped being nasty. “He asked like a month ago.”  
  
“These are open ended, you know. We could go any time.”  
  
“You know how the season is, Sam. I don’t know when I’m supposed to get away for more than a day at a time.” Dean sighed and picked up the envelope again. “Isn’t Luna coming up for Thanksgiving?”  
  
“She’s coming up next weekend and I thought we could all go back together. I thought you’d…” Sam snatched the tickets from his hand.  
  
Dean winced as he ripped them to shreds. “What’s your deal? I know other people, you know? I’m not like fucking Castiel, sitting around waiting for you to come home. And it’s not like you have to twiddle your thumbs when I’m not around.”  
  
“I know that,” Sam said. “I don’t do that.”  
  
“Good.” Dean wasn’t going to argue, even if he didn’t believe it.  
  
“Just … If it’s not practice, it’s a game. If it’s not a game, you're studying. I never see you.”  
  
“If anybody should be able to understand that --”  
  
“I know, and I do. Just…” Sam took a drink of his water. Then he stood and stacked their plates together. “The house. Your house. The time’s almost up and I want to be there with you again.”  
  
“You’ve been paying for it this whole time. What difference does it make?”  
  
“It’s not about -- Just forget it.” Sam carried the dishes into the kitchen.  
  
Dean wiped his hands down his face. This wasn’t the right time to call Sam a bitch, but it had never been more true. He gave the guy a moment, then followed, watching from the door frame as he Sam set the dishes in the sink and then dropped his head forward, with his hands bracing the granite.  
  
“It was … That time with you and Luna. It’s the only time we’ve ever had to ourselves. And I loved it.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean said. “So did I.”  
  
Sam turned to face him, broad shoulders slouched, despondent (SAT translation: bummed the fuck out). He took a step, a huge palm curling around Dean’s neck as he drew close enough to breathe into his ear. “I miss you.”  
  
“I’m right here.”  
  
Sam exhaled and dropped his face onto Dean’s shoulder, twisting the other fist in his shirt. “I know. I know you are.”


	44. Chapter 44

  
Dean didn't bother trying to smile as he entered the living room. He shoved his hands in his pockets and asked, "What's for dinner?"  
  
"Uncle Dean!" Luna leapt from the sofa, abandoning her pile of dolls to toss herself at his knees.  
  
Sam leaned over, touched her shoulders and tried to lead her away. "Give Uncle Dean a second, sweetie."  
  
She clung to him like a burr.  
  
"No. She's fine. Come here, you munchkin." Dean winced and groaned as he lifted Luna onto his shoulders.  
  
"You good? Did you get hurt?”  
  
"Fine."  
  
Sam swiped a hand down Dean's tense arm. "You need--"  
  
"I'm fine, Sam." He swayed to the piano concerto coming through the speakers, making Luna giggle and hold on to his ears. "When are Charlie and Val getting here?"  
  
"On their way."  
  
"You need help with anything?"  
  
"No. You just relax and play princesses,” Sam said and as an afterthought. “Beer?"  
  
"Please." Dean carefully dropped Luna onto the sofa and commenced to giving her a thorough tickling.  
  
"Daddy wouldn't take me to your game." Sam overheard Luna complain while he grabbed one of the bottles he kept in the fridge for Dean.  
  
He nodded in gratitude. "Your dad and I agreed that --"  
  
"Daddy doesn't go to Uncle Dean's games,” Sam continued the sentence Dean seemed to have trouble completing. "Because Daddy is too effusive and it makes Uncle Dean uncomfortable." He met Dean's eyes and smirked.  
  
“Effusive. Is that even a real word?” Dean tugged a lock of Luna’s hair. "You'll come with Gam and Gamps next time, okay? But I'm warning you, it's crazy boring. Bring a coloring book or something."  
  
"Did you have fun?"  
  
"Mmm. Not so much this time,” Dean said. “But usually I do, though."  
  
Dean's eyes narrowed as Sam kneeled in front of him, unlaced and removed his shoes and socks.  
  
"I want to see you play." Luna handed Dean a doll.  
  
"You will, kiddo." The words slurred as Sam kneaded his instep between both thumbs.  
  
"Do you know what my doll can do, Uncle Dean?"  
  
"No. Tell me." He moaned, smiled a little and pushed Sam's hair out of his face.  
  
Sam leaned down and kissed his sole. Dean made that pained look he got when Sam went too far. It was equal parts terror, disgust, confusion and hurt. That expression made Sam want to take Dean in his arms and slow-kiss him for hours.  
  
Instead, he let go of Dean's foot, because that's what Dean thought he wanted. "I'm gonna put the rolls in the oven."  
  
As he left the room, Dean asked, "What'd you and your dad today?"  
  
  
***  
   
  
When the doorbell rang, Dean took Luna's hand and they answered it together. Charlie dropped to one knee to present Lu with a present wrapped for a crown princess. Val skipped the smile and handed Dean a bottle.  
  
"Thanks.” He checked the label. “What do you say, Lulu?"  
  
"Thank you, Charlie!"  
  
Charlie stood and rubbed her hands together. "Alright. Let's eat. I'm starving over here."  
  
Dean stepped out of the way to let them into the living room. "Sam's in there working that Winchester magic. Table’s set. We can probably sit down. Cupcake, you go wash your hands."  
  
"Did you wash your hands?" Luna asked.  
  
Val stifled a laugh. Charlie put her hands on her hips. "Yeah, Dean. Did you?"  
  
He was outsassed and outnumbered so, he bowed and swept his hand in a grand gesture. "After you, milady.”  
  
Once the water temperature was right, Dean created a massive cloud of suds and sang Puff the Magic Dragon while he and Luna washed their hands together. Afterwards, he flicked drops from his fingertips onto her cheeks. She laughed and got him right back.  
  
Every time Sam stepped into a kitchen, miracles happened. The man could even make vegetables taste like real food.  
  
He also kept his socked feet between Dean's ankles throughout dinner. Charlie talked about a second-hand boutique she was planning on opening. She and Sam talked finances. As usual, Val didn't say much of anything. Dean cut up Luna’s meat and stayed on her case about eating. She was a bean-thin little thing and he and Mary had agreed that she needed to eat more.  
  
At some point, Charlie looked over at him and said, "You look like shit. What is that you're wearing, Target or K-mart?"  
  
Dean gave her finger. Luna played with her hand until she had mimicked him. Dean grinned and curled her middle finger down.  
  
"Daddy, can I be done?"  
  
"You know Uncle Dean is food police. What did he say?"  
  
Luna turned her big brown eyes up at Dean and he patted her head. “No way. Eat your steak and we can talk.”  
  
He plied her with two more heaping forkfuls before he set her free. She ran around the table a few times before crawling under it.  
  
"Hey. There's letters under here. Daddy, what’s STD?"  
  
Charlie cracked up laughing. Dean searched Sam’s eyes before he crawled under the table behind Luna. She pointed to the inscription.  
  
S+D  
  
in a heart.  
  
When Sam did this kind of shit, Dean felt like the Grinch with his chest aching, ribs cracking and stretching to make space for an underused heart. Dean grabbed Sam’s ankle and he jumped.  
  
"What are you doing under there, Dean?" Charlie asked. “You two need to wait ‘til we leave.”  
  
Val laughed. When Dean and Luna came out from under the table Sam's face was beet red. Dean punched his arm. "When did you do that?"  
  
"While back." Sam checked his watch and started to stand. "All right, Lulu-bird, say goodnight."  
  
Luna traipsed around the table to give everyone a hug. Dean rested a hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam covered it with his own.  
  
"I can take her, if you want.” Dean wiped a thumb over Sam’s smile.  
  
Charlie and Val glanced at each other and grinned.  
  
"Shut up."  
  
"Yeah. Shut up." Luna echoed.  
  
"Luna, don't say that." Dean led her from the room by her shoulders.  
  
"You said it."  
  
   
***  
  
  
"He's so good with her." Charlie leaned forward so her strudel crumbs landed on the plate.  
  
Sam nodded, still watching in the direction his life’s loves had gone.  
  
"He's good with you, too,” she said. “It's the only reason I didn't turn your pervy ass in when I found out how young he is.”  
  
Sam winced at Charlie's fail-proof candidness.  
  
"He's so damn good for you, it's silly." Charlie licked her fingers. "So, where is our big boy going to school?"  
  
"You should ask him?"  
  
"I'm asking you."  
  
Val leaned on the arm of Charlie's chair. "I don't even want to talk about the amount of trouble I got into in college. I was up to my fucking chin in trouble."  
  
"By trouble she means sex," Charlie said.  
  
"I gathered as much." Sam gave a mock smile and began collecting dishes.  
  
"You were such a slut." Charlie whispered in Val's ear, but not so quietly that Sam couldn't hear every word.  
  
It was more information than he needed and his face warmed. "You've known each other that long?"  
  
"We weren't together back then," Val clarified.  
  
"She wasn't even out yet."  
  
"I wasn't even gay yet." Val piled her glass on Sam's growing stack of dishes. "This bitch turned me."  
  
Charlie stood and took a few of the items from the top of Sam's pile to help him carry them to the sink. "So, are you good with him doing some exploration? That is what higher education is all about, isn't it?  
  
"Shut up, Charlie." Val stood at the doorway with her glass in hand. "You're giving him a coronary. Dean's not like that. You have nothing to worry about, Sam. He’s clearly crazy about you."  
  
  
***  
  
Luna was getting so big. She put on her PJs without asking for help. Dean helped her dress one of her dolls in the little pants suit Charlie had given her. "You sure you don't need a shower?"  
  
Luna shook her head. Dean planted a peck on her forehead. "Alright. Sleep tight, Stinker."  
  
"Wait a minute. Aren't you going to sing?"  
  
"What do you want to hear?"  
  
She sat up and rested her chin on her knee. "Daddy sings 'I Can't See Me."  
  
"I don't think I know that one." Dean sat on the side of her bed and wiped her hair from her shoulder. "You sing it for me."  
  
“I can't see me loving nobody but you.”  
  
Once Dean recognized the song, he sang along.  
  
“For all my life  
  
When you're with me, baby, the skies'll be blue  
  
For all my life.”  
  
She gave him a squeeze and chirped, "Good night, Uncle Dean. I love you."  
  
"Me, too, kiddo," Dean said and turned off her light.  
  
Returning to the living room, he found Charlie laughing while Sam looked like he had swallowed something weird.  
  
"What are you hens cackling about in here?"  
  
"You, baby boy," Charlie said. "What else is there?"  
  
   
***  
  
When the girls were gone and the boys were laying in bed, Sam curled his leg around Dean’s and asked, “Did you have a good time?”  
  
“Yeah. It was nice.”  
  
“I didn’t get to ask before. How bad was the game?” Sam pinched Dean’s nipple, smiling as he shuddered beneath his hand.  
  
“The game was fine. Just your dad is an asshole. Made us run because it was too close.”  
  
“You’re undefeated. He doesn’t want you to get complacent.”  
  
“He’s an asshole,” Dean repeated. “What were you talking about with Charlie and Val earlier?”  
  
“Various things. At the point when you came in, they had just mentioned that they’re planning to try for a baby.”  
  
Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “Wow.”  
  
“Yeah.” Sam ran a finger down Dean’s sternum, trying to make him shiver again. “They asked if we wanted to donate.”  
  
“Whoa! What?”  
  
“I don’t know if they're serious, but Charlie was talking about harvesting a bunch of their eggs and both of our sperm, mixing it all together and seeing what we got.”  
  
“That's kind of insane. Are you planning on doing that?”  
  
“I told them I’d think about it,” Sam said. “And talk to you.”  
  
Dean blew a short breath between his lips.  
  
“Legally, it’d have to wait another year, if you wanted to do it.”  
  
“Jesus ... That is some science fiction, Brave New World shit right there.”  
  
Sam chuckled. “Did you know, there is a whole sub-genre of fiction, in which men can get pregnant?”  
  
Dean’s eyes widened for a moment, but he didn’t reply.  
  
“What do you think of that?”  
  
“I think,” he said. “Some people have very active imaginations.”  
  
Sam wrapped his hand around Dean’s cock. “Would you want that? With me, I mean? A kid that was ours?”  
  
“What are we even talking about, Sam? Did you drink?”  
  
Sam slid his hand up, over the head of Dean’s cock and back down again, watching his languid blink. “I’d do it, if I could. In a heartbeat. Carry your child. Ours. If you wanted that.”  
  
As Sam whispered, Dean got that familiar, faraway gaze that warned Sam that he was skirting dangerously on the periphery of Too Far.  
  
“Doubt that science will ever make that possible,” he said, dropping the subject and letting it shatter. “It’s just fiction.”  
  
“If I was ever going to have a kid, which I’m not sure I would want that, but if I did, I’d knock up a girl the old fashioned way. Put her on her back and …”  
  
Sam tensed and withdrew his hand.  
  
Dean’s head rose and he sighed.  
  
Sam rolled over onto his back, pressed his head back into his pillow and counted backward from ten. He wasn’t sure where he’d gotten that technique, but it helped calm him. “You know, there's nothing female about bottoming.”  
  
“I'm going to have to disagree with you on that.” Dean used his fingertip to draw a symbol on Sam’s chest. “The Chinese got this thing called the yin yang, male-female, aggressive-passive how they complement each other. So, sorry to call you on your bullshit, but getting stuffed is definitely inherently feminine. World Religions.”  
  
Sam frowned, not in disappointment, but concealing his swell of pride. “How can I possibly be upset when you’ve been paying attention in class AND you use one of our words correctly in a sentence?”  
  
“Bite me.”  
  
“Even if there were something ‘inherently feminine’ about it, there's nothing wrong with it,” Sam dragged Dean’s hand to his mouth, and proceeded to kiss each one of his fingertips. “Having you inside of me ... is beautiful …. and natural … and I'm not ever … going to be ashamed of it.”  
  
   
***  
  
   
Dean scooted to the end of the bed, pulling his relentlessly romanced hand away from Sam.  
  
“Where you going?”  
  
“Shower.” Dean glanced over his shoulder, avoiding Sam’s eyes. “That allowed?”  
  
“Fresh towels in the cabinet.”  
  
Dean nodded and cleared his mind with a deep breath as he slipped into the bathroom for a moment of precious solitude.  
  
Sam wanted to have his baby…  
  
What the fuck?  
  
What the hell do you do with it when your brother/boyfriend drops that hydrogen bombshell on you? A normal person wouldn’t stand in the mirror imagining going out in the middle of the night to buy pickles to go with Sam’s peanut butter. Or holding Sam's hand while he went through labor. Telling him to breathe and all that.  
  
They’d have a boy with Sam's crazy eyes. Smart like Sam, too, not generally useless, like Dean. And would it have horns, because sometimes shit skips generations?  
Not that Jody or Ketch had horns.  
  
Not that Sam could ever fucking have his baby; he was just making Dean battier than he already was.  
  
He slipped the door locked and took his time with the shower. Maybe Sam would be asleep when he emerged, pink and prune-skinned. Fat chance.  
  
As expected, Sam was propped up in his bed, in his glasses, with a book open in his sheet-covered lap. He smiled and placed his specs on top of the book on the bedside table.  
  
“Come here,” Dean commanded as if he owned anything in the place other than the shirt on the floor, which had been a gift from Sam.  
  
“I’m comfortable. You come here.”  
  
“Get your comfortable ass up and get over here, Sam.”  
  
He sucked his teeth and hesitated a moment before he slid across the bed, and stood, flawless and bare as the day he was born. He crossed the floor until he was right in front of Dean, looking down at him, no predation in his gaze, only a soft anticipation as he bit his lower lip.  
  
Dean cupped his cheek and gave him a small pat. "Get on your knees for me, Sam."  
  
Sam blinked as if his lids were leaden and lowered himself. With one hand, Dean brushed his hair over and again until it was slicked back, exposing all of his gorgeous, upturned face. Taking his dick in his other hand, he held it an inch away from Sam's already parted lips, just to see what he'd do.  
  
The tip of that broad pink tongue poked out, licking at the slit until it coaxed a bead of pre-come for Sam to suck in and smile around.  
  
"Why are you so fucking beautiful?" Dean grabbed Sam’s chin in his hand and smacked his dick against his cheek. Not hard, again only testing him. Studying his reaction.  
  
Sam closed his eyes and tilted back his head even further, presenting himself.  
  
"So good. So good, Sammy.”  
  
Fuck Castiel.  
Dean was going to call Sam whatever the hell he wanted.  
  
“You gonna take it?"  
  
Sam nodded and parted his lips.  
  
Tempted as Dean was to shove right into his throat, he painted that pretty mouth with his tip. Sam’s eyes fluttered shut as Dean toyed with him.  
  
"You want it?"  
  
"Yes. Please."  
  
“That’s good. Ask for it.”  
  
“May I, please, suck your cock, Dean?”  
  
Already dripping like squeezed fruit, Dean held his breath and slid between those eager lips. He pulled back, head spinning as Sam's cheeks hollowed to create a sublime suction. Dean’s knees buckled and his fingers tightened in Sam's hair.  
  
Without warning, without even being aware that he was going to do it, Dean’s ass clenched and he drove all the way into Sam’s throat. The tight heat was blinding. He doubled over, covering Sam’s head with his chest. “Oh, fuck.”  
  
Sam moaned, clutched Dean’s thighs and fucking swallowed. Dean had never heard himself or anyone else make the noises that came out of him as he shivered and shook and shot his seed into Sam’s belly.  
  
“Jesus fucking Christ.”  
  
  
***  
  
Sam grinned, massaging his battered throat. “I take it you enjoyed that.”  
  
Dean gaped at his dick, and then at Sam, as if he was unsure of what nature of miracle had just been performed. “Fuck.”  
  
“You’re welcome.”  
  
Dean let his head loll back on his shoulders and blew out a loud breath before he shook his head and said, “Get on the bed.”  
  
“So bossy today.”  
  
“Get on the fucking bed, Sam.”  
  
Sam smiled and did as he was told.  
  
“On your back.”  
  
At first, Sam was permitted to let his legs hang over the side with toes on the floor (his heels arose of their own accord). He was not allowed to sit up to watch.  
  
“Just relax,” Dean said, chest between Sam’s thighs, Sam’s cock in his often over-zealous hand. The other smoothed down his chest. “Fucking relax, Sam.”  
  
“How am I supposed to relax when you keep swearing at me?”  
  
“Just, calm down.” Dean’s finger circled his nipple. “Let me take care of you.”  
  
Dean slipped to the floor, stripping Sam in a tight, but more patient stroke than he’d ever used before. A long, obscene string of spit hung from Dean’s lip before it landed and provided some glide to the friction. Sam moaned with the perfection of it, better almost than when he touched himself.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
Sam nodded, even though Dean couldn’t possibly see him from that angle. “Yes.” He clutched the hand Dean had rested on his hip.  
  
Dean continued to work him in slow, easy passes that Sam would have thought him incapable of. In fact, it carried on that way, slickened by Dean’s spit and Sam’s steady trickle of pre-come until his head thrashed back and forth on the mattress and he begged Dean for a firmer hand. “Faster. Please.”  
  
“Thought I’m always in a rush,” was the smug reply.  
  
“Just fucking…”  
  
“Nope. No swearing.” Dean finally took mercy and handled him like he had a destination.  
  
Sam twitched and strained beneath his hand, balls tightening, abs clenched as he drew so near the edge and then  
  
Dean’s fist closed cruelly around his base. Sam sat up and reached for his cock.  
  
“Uh-uh. Lay back.” Dean’s other hand urged him. “My dick, right? All of you. You’re mine. Right, Sam?”  
  
Sam stared at the ceiling, gradually recovering some semblance of physical control while his mind began to race.  
  
Dean asked again, “Who do you belong to?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“What? I didn’t hear you. Say it louder.”  
  
“I’m not going to say that.” Not because it wasn’t true, but because it was so utterly and entirely the case - to the point of humiliation.  
  
Dean’s hands fell away from him. He stood and backed up a step, looking down with an inscrutable glare. “I’m just playing with you.”  
  
“I don’t like that.”  
  
“Fine.” Dean shrugged. “Do you want me to finish?”  
  
“What do you think?” Sam spat out the words, crueler than he’d intended, too vulnerable to apologize.  
  
Dean blinked and scratched his stomach, cowed and younger than Sam had ever seen him. “Sorry.”  
  
Sam shook his head and looked away. He didn’t need to say it out loud. Dean had to already know that Sam belonged to him.  
  
The kid went back to his knees, lifting Sam’s heels to the edge of the bed. He jerked with his usual recklessness, slipping first one and then two fingers into Sam, too soon. Sam hissed at the burn and clamped down on the hand on his cock. “Easy.”  
  
The fingers in his ass scissored him open, a bit more gently, accompanied by a sloppy, greedy tongue. Sam shuddered and moaned and let himself be wrecked.  
  
Because that’s what it was. And to be sure Sam knew it, the moment he was about to come, Dean cut him off again. He kissed the inside of Sam’s thigh, then sucked hard and long enough to leave his mark.  
  
Dean’s head popped up, as if to see what he was doing to Sam when that must have been obvious. As always, Dean was breaking him into a trillion tiny pieces. Promising, threatening to put him back together, but never quite completing the task. Not in bed. If they could have stayed in bed, Sam would remain whole.  
  
But there would always be the climax, followed by the briefest afterglow, chased away by a rapid descent into the dark reality of Dean’s departure. Either that night or at best early in the morning. Sam would lay disassembled and struggling to hold himself together until his Unmaker found time for him again.  
  
Dean rose to his feet and peered down into Sam’s eyes. All of his innate confidence restored, as he drove his cock into Sam in one smooth thrust. The moment the fist on Sam’s shaft unfurled, he cried out and came apart.  
  
Sobs wracked his body, tears streamed from his closed eyes too freely to be kept back by lashes and lids.  
  
Dean wiped them away. "Why?"  
  
"I don't know." Sam clamped down tight on the truth.  
  
He shifted his hips and clenched his hole, trying to force him over the edge.  
  
“Be still. I don’t want to come yet.” Dean closed fist his around Sam’s throat.  
  
Sam shuddered and obeyed. The hand released him too soon.  
  
“Do you feel that?” Dean’s chest heaved against his, skin cleaved together by their sweat. “Do you feel how fucking hard I am for you? You’re mine right now, Sam. I don’t give a shit what you do when I’m not around. You’re mine right now.”  
  
“I’m always yours,” Sam confessed, as if under torture.  
  
Dean arched his back, leaned up enough to search Sam’s eyes while he fucked into him in long, deliberate thrusts, pulling all the way out and driving in again.  
  
For once, Sam refused. Couldn’t, wouldn’t say what he was constantly thinking and have those words get sucked into the black hole of Dean's silence yet again. “Just fuck me. Please, and be done.”  
  
Dean stilled. “Am I hurting you?”  
  
You’re killing me. “God, Dean. Just finish.”  
  
He snapped his hips, increasing the pace to a fevered clip, pounding into Sam as he bit his lip.  
  
When it was finally over and Dean lay recovering on Sam’s chest, he said, “Fuck. I’m sorry. I should have stopped.”  
  
Nothing could make it worse than it already was.  
  
“Why’d you cry?”  
  
_‘Because I love you, you idiot? Because you fill me and you hollow me out. Because I never know if I'm coming or dying beneath you. Because I'm so completely fucking in love with you it hurts. Everything you do tears me to strips, gores me, consumes me. The way you sing to my daughter. The way you touch me. The way you lie to my face and push me away. The way you'll never tell me you love me and I'm not sure if you do or why you come here at all, other than to fuck me and drive me insane.’_  
  
“What the fuck are you thinking, Sam?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“Come on.” Dean rapped his knuckles against Sam's forehead. “What's going on in that egg head of yours?"  
  
“Happy Birthday,” Sam said and kissed his lips to shut him up.


	45. Chapter 45

Dean grabbed an apple from the bowl of fruit on the kitchen table. He was chewing on his first bite when Jo leaned over the island, engrossed in the newspaper, which was already unusual. She grinned up at him and said, “True. So true.”

Dean narrowed his eyes and peeked over Mrs. Winchester’s shoulder at the eggs she was scrambling.

“Have you seen your article?”

He nudged Jo out of the way and she nudged him right back. “Wait your turn, superstar.”

“Superstar?”

Jo pointed to a line on the page and read out loud. “I sat down with the Gator’s superstar quarterback —”

“Give me this.” He snatched the paper away, ripping it and inciting Jo to punch him in the kidney before she scampered out of the back door. “Ah! What the hell is wrong with you? Fuck.”

“Dean!” Mrs. Winchester yelled.

“Sorry.” He leaned forward, gripping his ailing back. “Fuck.”

 

***

 

Sam flipped the sports section shut and laid it on the table beside his bowl of oatmeal. In the photo, Dean grinned widely with his arms crossed over his chest. Endearingly cocky. The world was going to love him just like Sam did.

SW: She really nailed you.

DS: What?

SW: ‘Confident, lively and full of endless energy, there is a darkness behind his charisma, possibly caused by the loss of his mother who passed away earlier this year.’

DS: Yeah. I don’t know why I told her that.

SW: It’s a great write-up. Of many to come. I’m sure my mom’s making you a scrapbook.

DS: Probably.

DS: I seem to remember you saying something like that about me when we met.

SW: Oh yeah. Arrogant spazz

DS: Self-absorbed, but yeah.

SW: We need to talk about college soon

DS: Do we, dad?

SW: Seriously. I don’t want him to sway you. I want you to think about what you want to do and make your decisions accordingly.

DS: OK. Don't stress yourself out

SW: No stress. I’m proud of you. Just wanted to let you know that

 

When Dean didn’t answer right away, Sam wrote again.

 

SW: Have a good day

DS: U2

 

***

 

Dean winced. He could barely stand to watch as Jo rammed her bumper car into the side of Chloe’s yet again, like she was trying to make the thing tip over. The look on her face was homocide.

“She’s fierce,” Garth said, appropriately impressed.

“Why don’t we…” Dean jerked his head in the direction of the rest of the fair, hoping, though not expecting, Jo would cool it a little if she had less of an audience.

Garth followed him to the tossing games closer to the entrance where Dean pointed at the duck shoot. “First time I met your parents was at this thing.”

“I remember that. You volunteered me for the team.”

Dean nodded.

“Shit. I didn’t realize we’d been together that long.” Garth latched onto his arm and earned himself a solid shove.

“Fucking hilarious.”

“Seriously, though. Have you thought about --”

Dean’s sigh was exaggerated, but he was good and fed up with the topic. “Do not start with that shit, Garth. Every time I see you, man.”

“You got one year left to make a difference at Garfield. Next year, football is going to swallow you alive.”

“Football has already fucking swallowed me alive. I hardly have time to brush my teeth in the morning.”

A gaggle of girls passed, leaning toward each other, all of their eyes pinned on various parts of Dean. He nodded a greeting out of sheer habit.

“And that’s the reason you won’t do it? No time?”

“That's the reason.”

“Otherwise--”

“I’d … think about it.” Dean pointed at Jo’s numbnuts boyfriend as he stumbled out of a porta-john, searching in every direction.

Both Dean and Garth ducked behind a partition to hide. Kyle had barfed all over himself on the tilt-o-whirl and spent the last half hour trying to clean up. It was pitiful and hilarious justice. That kid did not deserve to be with a girl like Jo. She’d just picked the least Dean-like guy she could find to piss him off.

“Did you hear what happened to that kid in Salina?” Garth asked.

“I can guess.”

Garth liked to keep Dean updated when LGBT kids in their school, the city, the state or the continental US were in any kind of distress. Chances were pretty good that it was either an attack or a suicide attempt.

“Injustice anywhere —"

"What am I supposed to do about it?” Dean rolled his eyes. “Am I supposed to walk every gay kid home after school?"

Garth planted himself front and center. "Do you have any idea what it would mean if you would come out?"

Dean looked around to be sure no one was near enough to hear before he gritted between his teeth. "This shit stops now."

"What? Come on, Dean. How hard would it be to just publicly own up to being bi?”

“Nobody comes out straight.”

“Yeah. And nobody gets persecuted for it either.” Garth shook his head, visibly rebooting. “Forget coming out. Even if you would openly condemn the attacking of gay students. Maybe get your reporter friend to do a piece. You could, literally, save lives."

Dean shook his head and started to walk away. Garth had a cause. Good for him.

“Alright. Fine.” Garth caught hold of his arm. “Answer me this one thing and I swear, I’ll leave you alone. For the rest of all eternity.”

Dean narrowed his eyes and spat in the dust, waiting for it.

“I read somewhere that gay guys have more sex than any other demographic. Is that true?”

Dean wiped his forehead. “Dude. Are you asking me to speak for an entire community? Jesus. Have you ever heard that white guys can’t jump, or dance, and have tiny dicks?”

“I’m a great dancer,” Garth said.

“Exactly.”

“So, you just don’t want to talk about it?” Garth raised an eyebrow. “This, although you have told me things about my cousin that I never wanted to know.”

“Dude.”

“I'm just saying.”

Dean rolled his eyes. He was going to regret this. “Sam … he's damn near insatiable and I always was, so … That answer your fucking question?”

“Cool.” Garth nodded. “Okay, so can I guess --”

“No.” Dean started back towards the bumper cars.

“Come on.” Garth scrambled along beside him. “It's everybody's first question when they see a gay couple.”

“It's also nobody's fucking business.”

“Does that mean you catch?”

Dean stopped cold. “Garth, I don't want to kick your ass, but I will.”

“You know, the sooner these topics stop being taboo --”

It required no effort to catch the mouthy fucker in a headlock and drag him to his knees. “That reminds me,” Garth coughed. “What's it like sucking cock?”

Dean knocked him to the ground and dug a knee between his shoulder blades. A lady steered her children around them.

“Too personal.” Garth tapped the asphalt for mercy. “Okay. Last question. I swear, last question. Stranded on a desert island, a guy or a girl?”

Dean let him go and Garth sat up, catching his breath.

It was actually a good question. “For sex?”

“In general, I guess.”

Dean gave the first answer that popped into his mind. “Sam.”

“Awww, man,” Garth sang and snapped his finger like he was at beat poetry hour.

“Shut up.”

“That's fucking romantic.”

Dean’s face warmed. “Bite me.”

“No. Seriously. Has he heard you say that?” Garth clutched the front of his shirt as if to rend it from his chest. “I think my heart just melted a little bit. I got to meet this guy.”

“You didn’t tell Chloe.”

“Why would I tell Chloe?”

“Because you have a huge fucking mouth and no filter.” Dean walked away.

By the time Garth caught up to him Dean had almost made it back to the bumper cars.

“I don’t have much time,” Garth said, gripping Dean’s shoulder.

For a second it seemed Garth was jerking his chain. Then he caught the urgent expression as Garth reached out to touch Dean’s face. “They feeding you? You look skinny.”

“Jody?” Dean dodged the hand and hustled his friend/mother between two food vendor’s tents.

Garth cocked his head. “Still fucking the giant, Dean? Really?”

“What the hell? Why are you in Garth?”

“I needed to talk to you. My father wants to meet you soon.”

“Don’t fucking possess my friends.”

“This kid isn’t your friend,” Garth’s body twitched. “He worships you.”

Dean scratched his eyebrow. “That isn’t --”

“You’re going to let him down, because no one can live up to the fucking pedestal he has you on.” Jody/Garth shuddered as if something was crawling under her/his shirt.

“Would you get the hell out of his brain?”

“He also wants you to want to fuck him,” Jody said with Garth’s voice, looking down at his gangly body. “He’s pretty hung, actually.”

“Jody, quit.” Dean looked away from the indecent sight of his friend used as a puppet and being made to feel himself up.

“Would totally get bent for you. And only you … With the exception of Zac Efron, but he’d want to do the pitching in that case.” She rolled Garth’s head around his neck.

“See. I shouldn’t know any of that.” The image would be with him forever.

“There’s other good stuff in here, too, but I don’t have time.” Garth jerked his head from side to side.

“Be still.”

“I can’t. He’s not hospitable.” Garth/Jody made a pained face. “Listen. All you need to do is tell my father yes.”

“Your father?”

“How much did John tell you?” She winced with Garth’s beady eyes.

“Nothing,” Dean said. “He hasn't told me shit. What should he be telling me?”

“It must be hard for him, but you need to as … Fine. I’m going, you stubborn little geek.”

“Ask him what?”

“Crap.” Garth dropped to the ground, seizing like an epileptic.

Dean jerked the beanpole by the scruff of his shirt. “What the fuck? Jody?”

Someone must have noticed the black smoke shit that burst from Garth's mouth before flying off towards the clouds. That simply wasn't Dean's biggest concern. 

“I think I just had a stroke,” Garth slurred, as if he’d been drinking.

Dean released his clothes and the dweeb crumpled to the dirt.


	46. Chapter 46

Sam yawned for the third time in as many minutes. He sighed and shook his head, dissatisfied with his sketch, especially the eyes. There was so much emotion in Dean's young face that was difficult to capture, even from a photograph. Sam was tired enough, though, to call it a night. He placed the pencil on his pad on the bedside table, thumbed a message into his phone and shut off the light.

 

***

 

Dean ignored his phone. Drinking with college girls was the opposite of worrying about the demon who wanted to meet him, or the man who loved him for no good reason, or football, or  college, or a ton of other shit life thought it appropriate to stack on a pair of seventeen-year-old shoulders.

He knocked back his ninth straight shot, slammed the glass on the table and hissed like a gila monster. Then he reached for the bottle. As he held it over Cassie’s glass, she blocked it with her hand. “Jesus, what are you made out of?”

Cassie’s roommate scowled. “I don’t think he’s human.”

Dean’s head swam, body flushed at the accusation. What did she know?

“He’s a fucking tequila worm.” The girl fell back onto her pillow.

Cassie held up her hands. “I know when I’m outclassed. You win”

“What? I thought you were supposed to be college students. Where’s the real competition around this place?” He sucked down another shot and hooted like a barn owl.

“We’ll take you over to Kappa Phi next time.” Cassie covered the mouth of his glass with her palm. "But you need to chill now."

He collapsed onto his back, head spinning in one direction while the room tilted and swirled in the other. Cassie laid down with a groan. “So. Fucking. Ill-advised.”

Dean grinned. Closing his eyes did not fix the vertigo. “Which one of you wants company?”

Cassie’s roommate snored so he dragged himself onto hands and knees, crawled over and rested his chin on the side of Cassie’s bed like a lost puppy.

“Go away,” she said, but when Dean finally managed to pull himself up onto her bed, she scooched over to make space.

He kissed her closed eyelid and she grumbled, but didn’t fight even when he draped an arm around her waist.

“Hey,” Dean whispered.

“What?”

“You ever hear anything about two guys having a baby?”

“What, like Neil Patrick Harris?”

“Who’s that?” How could her immediate answer not be No?

“Gay actor. Two kids.”

“With a man?”

She laughed. “You’re really trashed, aren’t you?”

“I’m serious. That’s still impossible, right?” He let loose a foul smelling burp, and yes, he was really trashed.

“I guess, if, like, one of them was born female and identified as male.”

“Doesn’t count.”

“It counts. I think. I’m trying to answer your question.” Her shove was a tiny act of drunken hostility and annoyance. “No. At present, on earth, two human males can not produce a baby without the help of a woman. Now, shut up and kiss me or go to sleep.”

 

***

 

The door to the apartment opened a little after 1:00 AM and a smile spread across Sam’s face before he even opened his eyes. Dean hadn't said he was coming, but it was a rare and more than welcome surprise when he stopped by unannounced.

Sam waited, his grin and cock expanding as the footsteps grew louder. He debated whether to hide in a shadow and pounce his lover, or lay there and pretend to be asleep. The door creaked open. Sam's heart slammed against his ribs at the wrong silhouette. Too small, too slight. Painfully familiar. “Jesus, Cas?" Sam gripped his chest. “You can’t just--”

Castiel sprung, his knees grinding into Sam's chest, hands crushing his throat.

It happened so fast, Sam lay stunned into submission. Cas shifted his knees to pin his arms in place. His thumbs pressed against Sam’s voice box until his lungs burned. Sam gasped as Castiel's voice remained calm as a midnight nothing. "Say my name. Say my name correctly, Sam. I know Dr. Reddy told you."

Black patches began to obscure his vision of Castiel’s enraged face. It was not the last thing he wanted to see. This was no way to die. "Ca --- Ange -- Angela."

Castiel-Angela's fingers loosened enough for Sam to suck in a pained breath. "Call me Angie."

'Angie.' Sam mouthed the name, without a sound.

“Oh. No. No. Castiel, no.” Angie kissed Sam’s cheek and let him go. She brushed down his chest with trembling hands. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

Sam clutched his aching throat as his former lover stroked back his hair, fingernails scraping over his scalp as she remained perched on his heaving chest and said, "It's okay, baby. Just breathe. I didn’t mean to.”

Dr. Reddy had told Sam about Castiel’s change. He had heard the words, even if he hadn’t fully processed them. Castiel had made a breakthrough, deciding to identify as a woman and discontinue psychiatric treatment, despite the doctor’s admonition that at least half of that plan was premature. Sam hadn’t spoken directly with Castiel-Angela since early July.

When he'd finally composed himself, Sam dropped back onto his pillow and rasped, "Why are you here?"

"Good to see you, too, Sammy.” Angie smiled with a startling sweetness. “I need a place. Just a night."

Sam shook his head.

"Two nights tops and I'm out of your gorgeous hair." She tugged a lock of Sam’s hair and tilted her head as if anything about this was charming.

Maybe there was a time when Cas could have pulled off coy, but that ship had long since sailed for Sam.

"I was afraid he might be here," Angie whispered, as if Dean were asleep beside them. "But you are still ... with him? Do you have to ask permission for me to stay?"

Sam turned his face away from her soft, meddlesome hands.

Angela traced over the burn mark on Sam's chest. "What happened here?"

"You can sleep on the sofa."

"Not even the guest room?"

"It's not available." Sam moved to stand.

Angela rolled aside to let him up. It was the crown jewel of all bad ideas to let her stay; it would be even worse trying to get her to leave. One night. Sam would change the locks, for the third time, once she was gone.

He stopped in the hall to gather linens from the closet. The gentle, pink gelled light from the ballerina lamp on Luna's bedside table spilled from her room - formerly Sam and Castiel's guest room. So much had changed in the months since that was the case, Sam hardly felt like the same person. Castiel certainly was, as much as he wasn’t.

Angela held one of Luna’s dolls in her hands. She looked up and sniffled, holding it to her chest. "I want to meet her. Sam. You can't keep her from me. Please. I'll be so good."

 

***

 

Dean grunted through his fifth chest press, sat up to rest and huffed out a loud breath. This tiny Asian kid leaned against the machine across the aisle, watching him. His face was familiar, but Dean couldn't place it.

"Kevin." The kid provided the answer to the question before Dean could decide whether to ask it. "Cheerleader."

Dean nodded an acknowledgement. Kevin was new. And hella cute. As far as guys go, he was the anti-Sam. He smiled, folded his arms over his trim chest and took an unabashed glance at Dean's crotch. It might as well have been a written declaration.

Slight, tight body in his workout gear. Arms and legs practically hairless. It’s hard to notice a thing like that and not wonder where else on his body might be baby smooth.

Kevin's smile widened like he’d heard the thought and was willing to disclose. Dean turned around on the bench and racked up another 50 lbs., even though he was already at his max for a solo press.

He laid back, took a breath and got into position. He huffed, strained, groaned and tried like fuck to lift the bar, but it barely budged. Kevin laughed as he walked away.

 

***

 

Sam removed the chair from in front of his door and tiptoed toward the living room. Castiel was seated in front of the sofa, on the floor, legs folded in a full lotus position, eyes closed, fingers curled in an upturned okay.

Sam held in his surprised huff and maneuvered around the meditating madman.

He was having a sip of tea when small hands landed on his shoulders. Angela leaned in and kissed his cheek. Sam held his breath, didn't move an inch as she whispered. "I've decided, you can call me Castiel, if you want. You'll be the only one."

"No, that's not ..." Sam inched away and sat down. "I just need to remember."

She sat across from him and leaned with her chin in her palm. Sam stood again to avoid being the object of Castiel's gaze. "Do you want some tea?"

"I'm fine for now. Thank you." Not much about her was different other than her hair, about the same length as Sam's and the serenity in her expression.

Sam turned and leaned back against the counter, leaving plenty of space between them. "So, are you practicing Buddhism now?"

"Meditation just ... helps me stay calm."

"That's good." Sam cleared his throat. "Good to have something like that."

Castiel nodded … Angela. Angela nodded and helped herself to the rest of Sam's tea. "So, I thought I’d find you a free-wheeling bachelor, since the paperwork went through and everything.”

"I'm ... I didn't expect you."

"Don't worry, Sammy. I'm not going to jump your bones or anything. Although, you look..." Cas- Angela folded in her bottom lip and leered. "Tasty as ever. I take it he's keeping you happy."

"You know, I have work today." Sam took his mug from the table and rinsed it. With his back turned, he dared to ask, "Will you be here when I get home?"

"Do you want me to?" Angela stepped behind him and ran her hands down his chest.

Sam shut his eyes. "Dean's coming over, so ..."

"We could all play together." She palmed his crotch. “He likes girls, doesn’t he?”

"That's not funny.

"Then, no. I won't."

 

***

 

It was a rare moment in which Dean was neither training, drinking nor drunk. He sat on the floor beside his bed. With his eyes closed, he pictured Jody, not with that blade sticking out of her chest. Not like that. In her stupid jean skirt, doing some old lady’s hair, telling him to bug off, that he was being a nuisance.

A smile spread over his face and wasn’t washed away by the tear that slipped over it.

“Jody. I need to know when this guy is coming. And what am I supposed to … Can you hear me? Garth is acting weird. Like scary weird. Like weirder than normal weird and looking at me like … I kind of just want to know what’s going on. Please. Amen, or not Amen. Just. Whatever.”

 

***

 

Castiel/Angela picked up a round, white display plate and held it up for Sam’s approval.

He shrugged. “Nice.”

“Or do you like this one better?” She asked of a square, black plate.

She selected the second set and gestured for Sam to lift the box into the cart. They went on, with Sam sighing through the choosing of linens and various accessories for the apartment she and Sam had co-signed on the day before.

While Angie was trying on blouses, Sam wandered through the cosmetic section. As his finger ran over a pallet of shimmering blue eye shadow, she said, “Not your color.”

Sam snatched his hand away, face warming under her scrutiny.

“And it doesn’t match your dress, either.”

Sam gaped at the grinning, dark-haired woman. How could he be surprised that she had rummaged through his things while he was at work? This was Cas, after all. Some things never change.

“What? I got bored,” she said. “The pattern is hideous and I can’t imagine that it flatters your figure. I guess you really are coming over to the softer side.”

“Dean--” Sam stopped himself, but it was too late.

Cas’ face lit up. “Little brother’s a little kinky.”

“He wouldn't want me talking to you about this.”

“But he’s not here, is he?” She simpered. “Let me guess. He never dresses up. Only you.”

Sam clamped down on a response, but Castiel was right.

“Look at him, Sam. That boy has been called pretty his entire life. And that’s not always meant kindly.” Angie held a palette of earthy orange and brown tones to Sam’s cheek. “You know what? I owe you, don’t I?”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“We can argue about that another time. I am going to make you look so fucking fabulous, that boy won’t want to unwrap you.” A manicured hand on Sam’s cheek encouraged him to look down into steely blue eyes and inhale the pumpkin spice latte on Angela’s breath. "Does he know you see me? Hm? Does he know you’re with me right now?"

"Cas, would you please..."

Castiel trembled, as if on the verge of eruption.

"I'm sorry. Angie." Sam swiped her coal-black hair behind her ear and tried a smile. Public tantrums were so last year. “I’m sorry. Okay? Angela.”

A man dragged his ogling son past them while Sam did his best to hold Castiel's attention.  
Angie. Angela. How to commit that to memory when Castiel would always be Castiel: terrifying and vicious.

Castiel turned and snapped at the kid, "What are you looking at, you little speedbump?”

Then he shook his head and actually apologized to the child, his father, and to Sam.


	47. Chapter 47

Jo stood at the hall mirror tucking errant strands under her wide-brimmed safari hat. “So, what are you doing tonight?” 

“Heading out in a little bit.” 

“Who with? Garth?” 

“Um … nah.” Dean played with her whip, making her body spin each time he tugged it. 

“You still seeing Chloe?” 

“Not tonight.” He reached around and touched Jo’s face. “You should draw on the scar.” 

“That was Harrison Ford’s scar, not Indy’s.” 

“Yeah, but it’s badass.” Dean rested his chin on her shoulder and watched her reflection adjust the hat. 

“You know, whenever you won’t tell me where you’re going or what you’re doing, I know you’re going to be with Sam.” 

Dean stood up straight and took a step back. 

“And I know you won’t tell me because you’re ashamed of it. And that’s the reason you've been lying to Daddy all this time.” 

Dean glanced over his shoulder to be sure they were alone. 

“And honestly,” Jo continued. “I don’t really want to be complicit in it anymore. I don't want you to think I think it’s okay.” 

Complicit. Look at Jo, using SAT words. To be complicit was aiding and abetting, which she had definitely been doing. She wasn’t wrong. She also wasn’t right. Dean wasn’t ashamed. He was in over his head in every aspect of his life. 

“You know what?” He sighed. “The reason I don’t tell you is because I’m sick of this bullshit conversation. Okay? I’m going to hang out with Sam tonight, because I like Sam. I like being with him, the same way you like hanging out with Kyle. Personally, I hate Kyle, but I don’t say anything.” 

“You do say things.” Jo’s glare was on full beam. “Mean things about him, all the time.” 

“Because he’s not good enough for you,” Dean said. 

“Exactly.” 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Dean winced. “I don’t deserve Sam. He’s too fucking good for me.”

  

*** 

 

“Hey Lucy!”’ Dean’s voice rang out. 

Showtime. 

Sam took a final look in the mirror, twisting to the side to check out his profile. He fluffed the extensions over his shoulders and smoothed the soft velvet over his freshly waxed thighs before blowing out a heavy breath.  

His heels clicked down the hall the way Ruby’s always had on hardwood floors. He made a concerted effort to slow his legs and his lungs. 

When Dean turned from the fridge, he blinked once. A soda can hit the tile and rolled away from his foot.  

“Do you like it?” 

Dean’s mouth flapped, unnervingly, uncharacteristically speechless. 

“I have spent the last ten days with ... someone, getting this right.” Sam tossed his hair in the airy way Cas/Angie had shown him. “You have to say something.” 

“Shit, Sam.” 

“You should call me Samantha tonight,” Sam corrected, altering his tone and speech pattern the way he’d been instructed: not only higher, but slower and lighter, less urgency, more bouyancy. They'd spend hours on his voice. 

An inscrutable expression flitted over Dean’s face as he shook his head. 

“You don't have to.” Sam had overplayed. 

A little makeup and a dress was one thing. This was a long dive off the deep end. He should have discussed it with Dean. Should’ve been less of a maniac. What the hell was he doing?  

The woman character he’d painstakingly pieced together split down the middle and fell away as Sam stepped toward his boy. “Do you want me to take this shit off?”

“No.” Dean’s voice was raspy, gaze distant, but he said, “I like it.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Good.” Sam crossed his wrists behind Dean’s neck, speaking with the feminine lilt Cas/Angie had coached and coaxed out of him. “I want to take you somewhere.” 

 

***

  

Sam removed the blindfold at the steps of a small plane and Dean refused to take another step. “What the fuck?” 

“It’s okay.” Sam pressed a hand to his lower back. 

“You know I need to mentally prepare before I fly.” Dean gripped the railings, refusing to so much as shuffle forward. 

“We don't have to fly, if you really don’t want to.” 

Rather than answer, Dean shook his head like a petulant child. 

“But dinner’s on board,” Sam said. “And pie.” 

“You put pie, for me, on a plane? What kind of fucked up, reverse psychology shit is that, Sam?” 

“I didn't think it would be this big of a problem to get you on board.” Sam placed a soothing hand on his shoulder and leaned close. “You’ve flown. You know it's safe.” 

“Who says it’s safe? I flew to meet Luna and back. Doesn't mean I want to make a habit out of it.”

Like magic, the foundation of Cas’ coaching clicked into place. All Sam had to do was channel a blend of his mom and Jo, with a dash of Charlie for good measure and he would become a huge-hearted bitch whom this boy would obey, without question. “Dean. Get on the fucking plane.” 

The flight attendant's makeup and costuming was as flawless as Sam’s own. It was worth every penny to watch Dean’s wide eyes as she delivered steak and potatoes with no veg for Dean and steak with steamed garlic asparagus for Sam. 

“What is she supposed to be, a crash victim?” Dean craned his neck to watch the zombie stewardess lumber away. 

Sam smiled and nodded as Dean ripped faux cobweb from the window and tossed it onto the table.  

Sam tossed his hair. Or rather Samantha did.  

Dean threw his fork onto his plate and sat back in his chair. “ I can’t eat under these conditions.” 

Sam pursed her lips. 

“You look like your mom when you do that.” 

“There’s a suit for you in the back.” Sam sucked a slice of asparagus from the edge of her fork.  

“Is that a wig?” 

Samantha’s false lashes fluttered. “Are you seriously asking me that? Do you have any idea how long it took me to get ready for you and you're wearing what? A thrift store t-shirt and some jeans? And those same fucking shoes I've asked you to throw away thirty times. You know what, don't touch that plate until you go back and change.” 

She reached out to drag the plate away from him. Dean gripped the edges. Samantha let it go and took a dainty sip from her glass, leaving behind a waxy stain that poured fuel into Sam’s characterization. “You look like nobody cares about you.” 

He’d never thought of himself as an actor, but it was kind of fun. 

"You didn't tell me we were doing anything.” 

“That's your excuse for not giving a shit. Do you even care about me, Dean?” Sam was treading pretty heavily into Ruby territory, but it still felt authentic, so he amped it up. “Do you care what I think about how you look? Or do you just expect me to primp and preen for you all day while you walk around like a slob.” 

“Oh my God.” Dean threw up both hands. “What do you want me to do?” 

“Go in the back and change.” Sam had another sip of water to hide his grin. 

 

***

 

Dean scratched his head and walked toward the back of the plane, looking over his shoulder at the ballbuster he’d left at the table.

He had no idea what he’d find but didn’t expect a woman holding a garment bag. At least it wasn’t the freaky undead stewardess. “Hello?” 

“Hey,” she replied and pointed to a closed door behind him. 

Dean stepped into the roomy bathroom and changed from second-hand chic into a sleek, hunter green suit over Calvin Klein briefs, socks and shiny, black shoes. He ran his hand over his hair in the full length mirror. It was a massive upgrade. 

He balled up his clothes, stepped out and the chick who’d given him the suit gestured for him to sit in a salon chair. That was familiar territory, so he parked and let her unfurl an apron over him. The moment she reached for a pallet of makeup, Dean caught her hand. “No.”

“Um. Yes?” 

“I don’t wear make up.” 

“OK. Well...” She pulled her hand from his grip. “I’m getting paid to put makeup on you. So, unless you’re paying more, I’m gonna win.” 

“I don’t need makeup.” 

“Generally speaking, I would agree. You have definitely won the fucking perfect face lottery. Congratulations,” she said.  

“However. I’m supposed to age you fifteen years. The suit will help, but I can’t finish the job without a little bit of goop.” 

Dean eyed the goop in question. 

“How about this? How about I tell you every step before it goes on?” She offered. “And I promise, right now, no lipstick, no eyeshadow, no foundation or blush. Deal?” 

Dean surveyed the materials on her table. “How are you going to age me?” 

“Watch and learn, mortal.” 

By the time she was finished, Madison had applied a twelve-o’clock shadow, faint age lines and had slightly yellowed Dean’s teeth, which she promised would fade again in a few days. She did some other stuff while his eyes were closed, but the sum total was convincing. 

“Is this what I'm going to look like in fifteen years?” Dean peered in the handheld mirror.

“Maybe.” Madison shrugged. “Anyway, she’s gonna love it.”

“You did his makeup, too.” 

“Hers,” Madison said and struck his ear with a brush. “Stop breaking character. She's creating a fantasy for you. Any guy should be so lucky.” 

As she dusted off his shoulders, tiny tufts fall to the floor. 

“Did you cut my hair?”  

“Barely.” 

“What the hell kind of fantasy has a fucking zombie stewardess?”

“It's weird, but it's original,” Madison said. “You experience anything like this before? No? Then go with it. Here. I’m going to let you cheat, because I’m too nice.” 

She handed him a flash card.

 

Samantha and Her Sugar Daddy

1\. Dean: twenty-something, hotshot playboy a la Leo DiCap in Aviator

2\. Samantha: trophy wife, Amazonian princess. Tall as fuck. A la Julia Roberts - Pretty Woman

3&4\. Pilot/Flight Attendant - died in crash. A la Thriller - serving dinner. (no bloat)

 

“The pilot’s a zombie, too? I’m glad I didn’t see that.” Dean rubbed his forehead. “You nailed the Pretty Woman thing, though. You friends with Charlie?”  

“We’ve worked on a few projects together.” 

“She made that dress, didn’t she?” 

“I believe so.” 

“So, I’m never going to hear the end of this.” He handed back the cue card. “None of it strikes you as odd?” 

“It’s just cosplay on steroids. I've seen a lot weirder,” Madison said. “One of my partners is a puppeteer. Let's just say we do a lot of prosthetic tentacles.” 

“Let's not say.” 

“My one piece of advice for you?” Madison handed him a leather wallet. “This shit was not inexpensive. Do not disrespect her by calling it into question. If you hate it, tell her after the fact.” 

“So, is there, like, a script?” 

“No. It's all improv, and the first rule of improv is the answer is always yes. Somebody pitches something, you run with it.” 

Dean opened the wallet and his insides fluttered: credit cards and an Arizona license with his picture on it. Dean Hendricks. He grinned. “He misspelled it.” 

“She.” 

He’d never seen ten $100 bills in the same place in his life. 

“It's part of your costume,” Madison explained. “I think the idea is to spend it all in one place.” 

Dean held a single, crisp bill in his hand, looking Ben Franklin in his shifty eyes. “Fuck.” 

“Probably. Also.” 

“I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing here.” 

“You’re making your girl happy.”

“That’s not a girl. He’s a fucking massive man.” Dean pointed at the curtain separating them from Sam. 

“Usually, sure. Tonight, she’s Samantha,” Madison said. “And she hopes that you like that. You want to make her happy?” 

“Of course.” 

“Good. You know what's going to make her happy? If you're happy.” She patted him on the shoulder. “Just go with it. Have fun.” 

Dean slipped the wallet into his inside jacket pocket and stepped back onto the extremely strange stage of his life.

Sam turned to watch him swagger down the aisle towards their table. “You look amazing.” 

“No. You look amazing.” Dean stood behind Sam and placed both hands on her shoulders. “And I’m sorry I’m only just now saying it. You just … you surprised me. I mean, not that you don’t always …”  

He shut his eyes. DiCaprio. The first part of The Aviator, pre-batshit. Smooth as fuck. Dean leaned down, slipped the hair away from Samantha’s ear and whispered, “You’re exquisite. Always.” 

Her hand landed over his. Dean lifted it and kissed her ringed finger. Sam ran a careful palm over the faux-stubble Madison had applied over his jaw. “So handsome.” 

Dean was no mathematician, but two and two he could do. Sam never usually wore a ring, which meant:

“This is the best anniversary ever, Baby. Thank you for planning all this.” He leaned down and took Sam’s lower lip between his. 

As he pulled away, Sam reached up and thumbed at his mouth.  

Then, he dipped a cloth napkin into his water and rubbed the icy thing over Dean's lips until he was satisfied. 

“Am I good?” 

“Perfect.” Sam-Samantha tucked her hair behind a pearl-studded ear as Dean took his seat. “Check your pocket.” 

Dean patted and searched until he found a wedding band in the breast pocket. 

“You take it off for surgery.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. Sam had seriously thought this shit through. Surgeon was a good one. Dean stiffened his spine and acted surgeon-esque. It stuck all the way through the first bite of his tender, cold steak.  

He choked back the groan of appreciation and dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin, subduing the urge to wipe with the back of his arm. 

His cool went missing again as soon as he swallowed in his surroundings. It was like being inside a tour bus on a Metallica On the Road video, only it was a fucking plane. Sam should have made his character a rock star. 

Across the wide walkway from their dinner situation, there was a plush-looking, cream white sofa. On either side of the aisle, love seats faced flat screen TVs, every bit as big as the one in Sam’s bedroom. There was even a fake fireplace up toward the front of the plane. Probably fake, since he hadn’t seen a chimney sticking out of the thing. 

Dean had dressed in the bathroom and had been too shocked by Sam to soak in the gold plated - fucking everything. The image slammed back into him as he reminded himself to breathe. And everything was done up with haunted house flair: spooky-ooky shit trailing from the ceiling, a giant spider web over one of the windows, with a plastic tarantula in the center. 

Curiosity took Dean by the balls and jerked him forward until he was leaning over the table. “Is this … Seriously, for a second. Is this your plane?” 

Samantha rolled her eyes. Jesus. Sam was holding this thing to the end.

Dean sat up, dignified. He was a fucking surgeon for God’s sake. “I mean, is it mine? Ours?” He leaned forward again. “Come on, Sam.” 

“Technically, it’s a jet.” Sam grinned. “One of my clients’. I suppose I could probably afford one, but I’d have to live in it.” 

Dean nodded and looked around the jet. He pointed at the bottle in the marble cooler. “What is that, champagne?” 

“Chablis.” Sam poured Dean a taste, wrist tilted. 

Samantha. 

The transformation was a thing of beauty. Dean would have given anything to be a fly on the wall watching Sam reprogram the way he sat and spoke and moved. 

He returned the bottle and raised a plucked eyebrow. Christ. Sam let Madison pluck his fucking eyebrows. 

“If you wanted to fly—” 

“When do I ever want to fly, Sam?” 

“George is on call. We could be in Chicago in half an hour. There’s a show you might like.” 

“And you would go like this?” Dean wasn’t even sure he’d want Sam to go in public like this. 

Not that he-she didn’t look amazing. Not that any guy wouldn’t be lucky as hell to walk around with a girl like this on his arm.  

How could he not take her out, show off, walk around Chicago with his supermodel wife? Hell, he’d gone through med school. He worked hard, chopping people open every day. He deserved to relax every once in awhile. 

Flying was excessive, especially when they could drive to Chicago in an hour, but Dean Hendricks loved his wife. He trusted her and, for a welcome change, he would let her take the wheel. “Whatever you want, Babe.” 

Samantha smiled, every bit as pretty as Julia Roberts. Maybe even a little prettier.

 

***

 

By the time they arrived, the music had already started. That didn’t stop heads from turning as Sam handed the coat check clerk his stole. 

He clung to Dean’s arm and hung onto the kid’s unflinching bravado. It was hard to relax when he was now 6’8”. Angie hadn’t made him practice nearly enough with the heels. 

It was no wonder they were staring; he must look like the 50 foot woman. If he looked like a woman at all. He certainly didn’t feel like a woman. He felt like a very large man, on stilts, in a dress, in public, with his teenaged lover. 

Sam started to pull away and make for the nearest exit, but Dean held him firmly in place with a hand on the small of his back. “You okay, Baby?” 

Sam whimpered. 

Dean’s other hand met his cheek. “Hey. You alright?” 

“You think they know?”

“That you’re a goddess?” Dean smiled. “There’s no hiding it.” 

Samantha batted her eyes and nodded. 

As requested, they were seated at a corner booth with a bottle of champagne. Dean’s hand never left Samantha’s thigh, grounding her to the moment and to the role.  

She filled Dean’s flute and asked the waiter for Perrier. 

“Come on.” Dean held his bubbly under her nose. “This stuff is incredible.” 

“Do you really want to see me drunk in heels?” 

Dean cocked his head, smiling, as if that was exactly what he wanted. “Just a taste. You can’t have water on our anniversary, Babe. Come on.” 

In court, Sam would claim that he was driven temporarily insane by Dean’s use of pet names. Samantha sipped and then downed half of the glass before she placed it back onto the table. “Happy?” 

“Very.” Dean smiled like he was looking at a baby or a butterfly. 

He pecked Sam’s lips and she drank a little more. 

“Okay, Betty Ford.” Dean peeled the glass from her hands. 

“What do you know about Betty Ford?”

“I know things.” Dean leaned over and whispered, “Documentary.” 

Samantha crossed her legs and leaned close to kiss her husband’s cheek. She massaged his strong arm, grateful to be safe and seen. Dean slung that arm around her and squeezed the other shoulder as she asked, "Which bathroom am I supposed to use?" 

Dean wiped the hair from her face, turned up her chin with a fingertip and kissed her lips. "No fucking clue."

 

***

 

Jody used to have this boyfriend who was really into Jazz. Bald black dude, taller than Sam. Army. Nice enough, so long as he didn't talk back. Dean would retreat into his headphones: Sabbath or NWA rather than suffer saxophones and ten- minute trumpet solos. 

He wasn't even sure that's what the music was or why Sam thought he would like it. A blind guy played guitar and sang, sometimes in Spanish. Another guy switched back and forth between electric and upright bass and a third dude on drums.

_Sunshine_

_When you’re with me I can fly_

Dean had seen people playing music in parks before, and parades and things like that. But this was the first time he was this close to live music being made, just for him. At least that's how it felt with the vibration surrounding and elevating everybody in the place to a common plane. 

The bottle was half full and that might have had something to do with the weightlessness. Samantha slid out of the bench, elegant hands held out to him, long fingers wiggling. “Dance with me.” 

There was no way Dean would ever deny this woman. He danced with his head on her unpadded chest, reveling in the natural, firm swell of Sam and his heart beneath the soft fabric of Samantha's dress. Sam’s cologne was replaced by some perfume that tickled Dean’s nose. 

His hands trailed up and down Sam’s back, passing over Samantha's hair. She hummed along with the music, waves resonating deep through Dean’s body. If he ever was going say the words... 

“I love you,” Dean Hendricks whispered up to his stunning wife, because he could do shit like that. 

He was a medical James Bond who he could do whatever the fuck he wanted, including letting that shit slip out of his overeducated, overpaid, jet-owning mouth. 

Sam leaned down and pressed her smile to his cheek. “I love you.” 

That voice, breath, warmth and those goddamn words sent a surge through Dean. Nobody else had ever said them to him except for his sister, who didn’t even fucking know she was his sister. And she had only confessed her love for him after she’d come on his fingers. Sam generally only said it when Dean’s dick was hitting his spot. 

He started to take a step away from the charade. 

Samantha pressed closer, cheek to his forehead. Dean looked up at her and she kissed his lips, smiling like some Renaissance masterpiece. She hovered above him: an angel or a star. 

An entire constellation. 

When the song was over, Dean sat. Samantha danced with her eyes only for him and not the dozens of other spectators who couldn’t have turned away if their lives had depended on it. But she wasn’t dancing for any of them. She licked her burgundy lips, batted hazel eyes and swayed for her man alone. 

Judging by her movements, it wasn't clear that she could hear the music. Rhythm was inconsequential. Her art was the freedom of the sensuous roll that rippled through every muscle from cherry-coated fingertips that touched the ceiling to her toes that peeked out of glossy, black pumps. 

The beat didn't matter. She wasn't dancing so much as flowing, churning, pouring herself out for him. 

Dean couldn't piece together the strokes of fortune that had brought him to this place; he could only be grateful. He’d be leaving with this beauty, sleeping with her in his arms, kissing her good morning, every day for the rest of his life. 

If only... 

A wave of emotion loomed thick in Dean’s throat and threatened to drown him. He strode (fled) to the bathroom, soft and too hard. He slipped into a stall and raced to open his pants, stroking as Samantha danced in his head. 

Dean rested his forehead against the stall door, jerking and panting as Sam shrank. Soon, she wasn’t much bigger than Luna, but with a wheat-colored bowl cut. Too slight to want. Too small. All wrong 

But he couldn't make himself stop beating off to the vision of Kimmy, Marc’s toy, who underneath the ruffles and lace was a pretty, little nine-year-old boy named Dean. 

“God, no. Please.” He squeezed his eyes shut, bit down on his lip and willed her to grow up. Tried to make her not him. On his knees. Face burning. Tears streaming into his mouth already overflowing with blood and that nasty stuff Marc always wanted him to swallow. 

Dean let go of his dick and stumbled back, slumping on the toilet, holding his head in both hands. 

Still gasping. 

Heart thudding in his ears

He wasn't that girl anymore

He wasn't a doctor

And Samantha was Sam.

Full grown. Overgrown.

Dressed up like a girl because he wanted to make Dean happy, Because he loved him. 

He'd said it and this was just another way he’d shown it.

 

And Dean believed it. 

He was safe with Sam, and even if he wasn’t completely sane, Sam accepted him that way.

Loved him.

Sam loved him.

If no one else ever had, Sam did.

 

Dean stood and tucked away his flaccid cock. He splashed his face with water and waited until the red of his eyes and the  blotches under his skin had subsided. 

When he returned, the music was replaced by the bustle of conversation. 

He wasn’t even a surprised to see a man at their table, standing over Samantha. He was twice Dean Hendricks’ age, but fit and good looking under wavy grey hair. Judging by the suit, and the shoes, and the easy way he leaned in when he talked to her, he wasn't some role play millionaire. Only a guy with something to show for himself would approach a woman like that. 

There was no way Sam wasn't digging the whole Anderson Cooper vibe. Who wouldn’t want to get at that? Dean wasn’t going to block Sam, so he slid into a bar stool, ordered a cognac and watched to see if the old guy had game.

 

***

 

Graham Mason had started by offering his hand and introducing himself. It didn’t matter what level of gentleman and scholar he was, Sam scanned the restaurant for Dean. 

Gesturing at a chair, Graham ignored Samantha’s reply that the seat was unavailable. “Come on, gorgeous. Keep me company. Just a moment.” 

Sam took a deep breath and sat back in his chair, establishing plenty of space between them. Graham leaned an elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand. “You are … breath taking.” 

“Thank you.” 

“A vision.”

“Thanks.” Sam scratched his throat and searched the room again. “You know, I’m here with someone.” 

“Yeah. I saw him. I doubt he deserves you.”

Sam huffed and glanced at the card Graham offered, but declined to touch it. The man laid it in front of him on the table. “I’m in town for a few more nights, if you --” 

“Listen, my husband --” 

“Husband, huh? He’s so young. Wouldn't you rather a tried and true model? Or at least one that’ll keel over in a decade and leave you all his money.” He laughed at his own joke. 

Samantha choked out a chuckle and scoured the place for Dean. 

“Why don’t you let me buy you a drink?” 

“No, thank you.” Sam slid his hand from under grabby fingers. 

Graham gestured and ordered Sam a drink he would never touch. “So, no children, right?” 

“We have a little girl, actually.” 

“Wow. What’s her name?” He had a bit of his drink and crossed his legs. 

“Luna.” 

“Hm. I didn’t ... take you for the type. Hypothetically speaking, would she be staying with Daddy or coming with us?” 

Finally, Sam spotted Dean at the bar. "What the hell?" 

"He has a problem, doesn't he? Booze. A lot of these young hotshots do.” Graham shook his head, as if someone had asked for his pity or his diagnosis. “If it's not that, it’s pills or coke. Don't know how to pace themselves. He’ll burn out before he's … Is he even 30?" 

Sam shot a telepathic message across the room. ‘Get the fuck over here.’ 

“He doesn't pay attention to you, does he? Leaves you alone with a strange man.” 

The moment the hand landed on his leg, Sam covered it with his own and squeezed until Graham's smug smile disintegrated into a howl. The man fell backwards out of his chair, then, stood cradling his damaged hand to his chest. “You crazy, fucking bitch.” 

As Graham hurried away, Dean ambled over and sat down.

 

***

 

“You just lost us a cool mil.” 

Sam glared back from behind Samantha’s smoky eyeliner. 

“Demi Moore? Indecent Proposal? No?” Dean shrugged and sipped his drink. 

“You had no problem with that?” Sam’s nostrils flared like he’d just lost a race. “He had his fucking hand on my leg.” 

“And you crushed his thumb. Seems fair to me.” 

Sam-Samantha covered her face with both hands. When he emerged, he sighed. “You said to me recently … That you don’t care if I … You were in the middle of … You were inside of me, and you said you didn’t care what else I do. Who else I’m with.” 

“Come on, Sam.” 

“Do you see other people, Dean?” 

He sat back in his chair. “I’m looking at a room full of other people right now.” 

“And you know exactly what I’m asking.” 

Dean sat his drink on the table. “I don’t think it makes any difference. As long as I’m with you when I’m with you.” 

Sam turned away, but his lip wavered. 

“Hey, come on.” He brushed a hand down Sam’s sleeve. “We were having such a good time.” 

Samantha blotted away the make up around Sam’s kaleidoscope eyes. “It matters to me. A lot. Okay?” 

“Okay.” 

“I know about the blonde girl.” 

A flare went off in Dean’s chest. “You really want to do this now?” 

“What’s her name?” 

“Jesus.” Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. 

Samantha stood and looked, for just a moment, like she was going to hit him. And if she did, it wouldn’t be some girly slap. She was going to use Sam’s fist and beat the hell out of him.

Instead, she stormed out of the place, all eyes trailing her out just like they’d followed her in. Dean left a $100 bill on the table and ran after him.

Her.

Him 

Sam walked briskly on this endless legs, ankles twisting every few steps. Dean jogged alongside him. “Is this really happening right now?” 

“Leave me alone, Dean.” The low growl was back - all Sam. All man. 

“I know. I won’t like you when you’re angry, but you’re going to fall and break your neck. Would you sit down and talk to me? Please.” 

Sam halted the wobbly speed-walking and peeled off his shoes. Dean, who had seen some gnarly acts committed with the business end of a pair of stilettos, took a step back and kept his eyes on the weapons in Sam’s hands. 

“Do you fuck her?” 

“It’s not important, Sam.” 

“How can you say that?” Sam dropped his arms and the shoes clacked to the concrete. “How can you not care if I give myself away? You’d be fine with if I let every Tom, Dick and Graham screw me?” 

“It’s your body.” 

“How can you say that?” Sam’s head fell forward and the water works began. 

“I don’t know. I guess… I figured after the whole thing with 

Cas. You ---” 

“There is no thing with Cas. Cas and I were over before I ever put my hands on you.” 

“Look, Sam. You need someone smart and … Castiel’s a fucking lunatic, but he’s all sophisticated and cultured and what not.” Dean looked at the shiny shoes of some fake success he was never going to be. “I know I’m not enough for you.” 

“Because I’m not enough for you?’ Sam plopped down in the middle of the sidewalk and dropped his face in his hands. 

“What? No.” Dean took a knee beside him, ignoring the cowboys and ghosts and sexy maids who stared as they passed by.  

“Because you’re fucking perfect. You're … You are, and you have everything. What the hell do you need with me? I mean, look at you. You’re even perfect as a chick.” 

Sam raised his eyes. “So, you're fucking other people because I’m perfect?” 

Dean ran a palm over his mouth. Did he have to say this out loud? “When this … this thing with us is over, I don’t want to be standing there like some idiot who can’t get over you.” 

Sam looked up at him, silent for a moment before he dragged Dean into his lap and slobbered all over his face and neck like a St. Bernard. Eventually, he allowed Dean to help him to his feet and drag him to a bench. 

Dean sat down and scrubbed his hands over his face. “I never understood what you want with me. I can't be that good of a fuck.” 

“You're an amazing lover.” Sam said, swaying like a leaf in late November. 

“I don't even take your dick.” 

“You know I don't care about that.” 

“I’m just saying. I don't know why you’re with me. It kind of… doesn’t make sense.” 

Sam squinted, as if Dean was a hundred miles away. “I don't expect you to understand this, but … I was … Have you ever felt like dry bones?” 

Dean had never heard of that. 

“It’s how I felt, dead in my skin, for so long,” Sam wiped his nose on Dean’s shoulder. “When I'm with you, I’m alive. I don’t question it. I just want it. All the time. And I can’t stand sharing you.” 

Dean blinked. The black river reflected the streetlamps as if there were floating stars. They shone in Sam’s glassy eyes, too. “Are you saying you want me to be, like, your boyfriend?”

“How is it possible we’ve never had this conversation?” Sam smoothed a huge, hot hand over Dean’s face. “Of course. Of course.” 

Dean exhaled through his nose and nodded. Sam mirrored him, trying to subdue the smile before nipping his boyfriend’s lip. 

Dean leaned back to look at his face. “You. Never drink again.” 

Sam laughed and buried his face in Dean’s lapel.

“No one else, okay?” Dean swore. “Only you.” 

The Windy City blustered around them and Sam burrowed his arm under Dean’s jacket. In a matter of seconds, he was snoring. 

 

*** 

 

Knees still weak, skin littered with goose-bumps, Sam leaned on Dean all the way up the stairs to the blessed warm belly of the jet. 

Once George had pulled the craft into the air, Samantha Hendricks pressed her hands to her husband’s shoulders and urged him to sit in the middle of the sofa. She turned and lifted her hair in a bunch to grant access to the round buttons dotting from her neck to the base of her spine. 

Dean took his time opening each one and kneading the vertebrae it revealed. At the center of her back, he began to award a kiss for each button. His mouth had always been as gifted as his hands. Samantha let her eyes slip shut and sank into his touch 

Dean’s hands enclosed her hips and he coaxed her to bend forward while he massaged her left thigh, suckling the skin over her coccyx. He tickled behind her knee and gave her ass a little pat. A hand slipped between her legs. “So that’s where you are.” 

Samantha crossed the aisle and slid the dress from one shoulder, then the other like a skin and let it pool around her feet.

Jacket open, tie loose, Dean’s palm rested between his splayed legs, concealing his arousal while his other arm draped across the back of the sofa. Green eyes tracked Sam like a marksman. 

Samantha stepped away from the puddle of dress allowing Dean to take in the dark green, laced bra and panties that matched his suit. 

_I belong to you completely. I always will._

Sam swooned at the words, but kept them silent. 

Dean beckoned with his fingers until Samantha was standing directly between her husband’s knees. He shivered at the palm on his belly. 

“You look...” Dean’s other hand slid over Sam’s ass. “You waxed everywhere?” 

Sam stepped back. “You’re breaking character again. Samantha’s always waxed.” 

“Always ready for her man.” 

“That’s right.” 

Dean patted his thighs. “Come on.” 

Sam straddled Dean’s lap and tossed his hair out of his face. 

“That’s hot as shit.” 

“The hair?” 

“Hell, yeah. I mean, I love your hair anyway, but … fuck. ” Dean took a fistful. “Can I pull it?”

“I’m not sure.” Sam gave it a light tug himself. “Probably shouldn’t.” 

Dean peeled down the brastrap and latched onto a nipple. Sam wrapped his arm around Dean’s head and moaned low in his throat. He raised on his haunches as Dean pulled the string of his thong around one cheek and slid a hand in its place. 

“Yeah, Daddy.” 

“No.” 

Samantha frowned. 

“Just, no.” 

“Well, you're bossy like one.” 

“Get up.” Dean pushed at Sam’s hips. “Seriously, Sam. Get off of me.” 

“What if I don't?” 

Dean shoved in earnest. As Sam toppled, he hooked arms and legs and took Dean to the floor on top of him. They wrestled, growled and strove until Dean came up with a handful of long, brown hair. 

Sam stopped struggling to gawk at it. Then, with a burst of energy and muscle, Sam flipped them and tossed Dean onto his back. 

He had grown stronger in the last year, but was still no match for Sam. One thing could be said for Dean, though, he played to win. He tossed an elbow that connected with Sam’s nose. Only when he had exhausted all of his half-feral options did he drop his head to the floor and bare his throat, winded. 

Sam lowered his mouth over Dean’s trachea, closing his teeth just enough to claim victory before kissing his victim. 

Despite being pinned, Dean strained to raise his hips. 

“Not until I say.” Sam stretched himself out, pressing every inch of Dean’s body to the floor. 

It took a moment, but he stilled. 

“Good.” Sam shook his hair into Dean’s face while his fingers sought under jacket and shirt. 

“Oh God, no.” Dean wiggled and thrashed while Sam laughed.  

“Nonononono. Stop. Listen. This is important. Seriously.”

Sam paused to let him speak. 

“How long we have this thing?” Dean asked. 

“Til tomorrow afternoon.” 

“Then you ought to be my wife until then. And no self respecting girl would tickle her husband on the floor of his own jet.” 

Sam couldn’t help laugh at Dean’s argument. “You seem to forget that I was married to a woman. So, don't assume I'm clueless just because I'm gay. And for that, more punishment.” He sat up and ripped Dean’s shirt right up the center, sending buttons flying in every direction. 

They landed like a brief rainfall on the soft surfaces around them. 

Sam scraped synthetic nails down his heaving chest. Red-lacquered claws left thin, pink stripes then slipped under Dean’s clamped arms. “Please, Sam. Samantha. Baby. Please.” 

There it was again. 

“There’s my girl.” Dean stroked her cheek and held back her hair as she leaned forward to kiss him, slow and sweet until he was moaning into her mouth. 

Then she crawled backwards down Dean’s body. He rested a hand on the back of her head. As she laid herself over his legs and began loosening his belt, the heat wave that flooded her system burst into a painful flare spearing low in her belly. 

The agony spiked and Sam rushed to the bathroom in a panic. 

 

*** 

 

Dean shrugged out of his jacket and the wrecked shirt, leaving a trail of clothing on his way to the bathroom. He knocked on the locked door. "Sam? You okay? Can I come in?" 

The knob snicked, Dean turned it and stuck his head in finding Sam still in the bra with a rag in his hand. He tossed it to the floor and said, "Game over.” 

He caressed his half hard dick, regarding it with mournful eyes. 

"What the hell happened?"

Sam shook his head. "Someone neglected to tell me it would hurt like hell if I got an erection while my cock was tucked. Would have been good to know.” 

“Want me to take a look?” Dean asked, already taking an eyeful.

“No. It’s better now.” 

“I think you should let me have a look.” Dean smiled as he slipped to his knees. “I am a doctor, after all.” 

He nudged Sam's hand aside. Pressing the massive boner to Sam’s stomach, Dean rolled one, then the other nut between his fingertips until Sam let out a soft groan. “You like that?” 

“Yeah.” 

Dean licked his other thumb and rubbed the slit with it. Sam’s hips jutted forward as he leaned back to grip the countertop red mouth parted as he drew in a quick breath and rested feather-light hands on Dean’s shoulders. 

Dean suckled the head of Sam’s cock like he would a girl’s tit. He curled his tongue around it and dipped into the slit, savoring the salty burst of pre-come, and Sam’s open-mouth groans. 

_God, I fucking love you._

Dean couldn’t say it out loud. 

What he could do was take Sam as far as he could. Choke until

Sam pulled back, allowing him space to breathe and cough and hack up slime. 

When Sam scooped his hands under Dean’s arms to make him stand, Dean pushed him away and brushed the tears from his cheeks. He rested his forehead against Sam's hip for a moment longer before laying a trail of kisses back to his shaft, nuzzling it with his cheek. 

_I love you, Sam. So much. I hope you know it._

Sam stroked a hand over Dean’s head, withdrew his dick and replaced it with his tongue. Palm nested beneath his chin, Sam tilting up his face and stared down into his eyes as if he had his own declaration to make. Instead of speaking, Sam kissed him again and let him loose. 

Dean closed his mouth around Sam's solid flesh and waited.

Poised himself to take whatever Sam would give. 

What he received were slow, deliberate rolls of Sam’s hips, his mouth sweetly filled and fucked as muscles bunched beneath his hands. Then he was blessed with a hellified grumble and a heavenly shudder. 

Dean stuffed a finger into his mouth alongside Sam’s cock, stroking the side and soliciting another growl. Then, he slid the spit-slick digit between Sam’s cheeks, along his hairless hole. Dean let out a groan of his own at the smooth, cherry tight resistance. He pulled Sam’s cheeks apart and slipped the tip into his heat. 

Sam bucked and grasped the back of his neck. 

Dean braced himself, but Sam never penetrated more than halfway. Never picked up his pace. Never stopped making love to Dean’s mouth like he was made of porcelain. Tears streamed as freely as if he had been choking, and he let them. Let Sam and his stupid liquified emotions have their way. 

Hands cupped Dean’s face, nails gingerly scraped his hairline and neck, Sam took him with relentless tenderness right until the end, when the snap of his hips became erratic. “Dean. I’m gonna…” 

Dean gripped the backs of his legs, fingers slipping over Sam’s scars. He closed his eyes, held on tight and welcomed Sam’s essence into him. Shivered with Sam’s tremors, basked in his rapturous cries and the fingers stroking back his hair.

“That was … thank you.” 

Once Dean was on his feet again, Sam kissed him, took his hand and led him to a room with only a cream-quilted king size bed.  

Sam followed Dean’s direction and lay on the bed. He spread his legs and took Dean’s tongue into him like a dream. For his part, Dean saturated Sam’s hole, thrust as deep into his lover as he could, marveled at the petal-pink and golden-earthy taste of him. 

He kept one hand and his mouth on Sam at all times. With the other, he beat off hard and fast until he shot onto the wood floor. Sam noticed when it was too late and Dean had dropped his head onto the mattress to catch his breath. 

“Did you just … Dean, why? I wanted you inside of me.” 

“I am inside of you.” Dean hooked his middle finger and swept it Sam’s prostate, smiling when his heels dug into the mattress. 

“Just relax.” Dean prodded and licked and worked him until Sam was purring like a tiger. “Is it still good?”

Sam’s moan sounded like confirmation. 

Twenty minutes later, when Sam was loose as warm putty, Dean climbed onto the bed. He lowered himself, entering Sam while he gazed into wide open marble eyes. He flowed into and out of his lover in calm, even waves. Whenever he came too near the edge, he focused on the strong hands on his back or the intense, magnificent groans he was slowfucking out of Sam. 

His boyfriend. 

“Tell me when you want me to finish?” 

Powerful arms closed around his neck. “Never.”

 

***

 

Sam blinked at the ceiling, his peripheral vision blurring grey. 

Dean touched his arm. ”You okay?” 

Sam nodded. When he was able to speak, he asked, “Is that how you are with a girl?” 

“Sam, don’t.” 

“I just…” Sam sighed. “I've never experienced you like this.” 

“Ditto.” 

“Touché.” 

Dean held Sam’s hand, studying his burgundy nails. “You shaved your fucking arms?” 

“Not me, but, yeah. Waxed. And it’ll grow back.” 

Dean’s silences come in a variety of tones and flavors. Sam opened his eyes to divine whether this was one of the dangerous ones, where Sam would lose him for hours, or even days, at a time. 

“I can't believe you did all this for me.” 

Sam laughed and pinched his ear. “Can't claim my motives were completely unselfish. I got to watch you all night.” 

“Watch me watching you, you mean.” Dean tweaked Sam’s nipple. “Did you enjoy this? The whole thing?” 

Sam shrugged. “I didn’t hate it. I’d do it again, for you.” 

Dean stared at the ceiling, chewing and choking on his thoughts. 

“You know, everyone expects me to be... you know, look at me, right? I don't always feel like - this,” Sam explained the best he could. “I mean, I'm not a woman. It’s not gender dysphoria, but I don't always feel ... strong.” 

“But you are.” 

Sam smiled. “You let me escape that sometimes. I can just surrender with you without feeling like you're judging me.” 

“Why would I judge you?” 

“For giving up power,” Sam said. “Choosing to be weak.” 

“I never think you're weak, Sam. Not even in a fucking dress.” 

“You do love women, don't you?” Sam fought to hold his smile in place, even as he waited for the answer he didn’t want to hear. 

“It's just a different thing,” Dean said. “I like variety.” 

“I know.” 

“I don't mean…” Dean shook his head and rolled over so he could look Sam in the eye. “I told you. No one else, Sam. If that’s what you want.” 

“It is. 

“Done.” 

 

***

  

When Sam returned to the room with the warm wash cloths, Dean wrenched up a corner of his mouth to convey levity he didn’t feel. 

He reached out for a rag, but Sam insisted on cleaning him. “You haven’t been yourself all night.” 

“I thought that’s what you wanted.” Dean folded his hands behind his head. 

“First of all, it was a game. It was … just a way to play. Not. I thought it would be fun…” 

“It was. Weirdest Halloween in history.” 

Sam smirked. “That’s it? You weren’t … I don’t know, someplace else, at least some of the time?” 

“It was cool. Just reminded me of some stuff.” 

Sam nestled beside him, head on his arm, hand over his heart. 

“Will you tell me?” 

Dean brushed Samantha’s hair from Sam’s shoulder. He was going to think Dean was a freak.  

Sam touched his cheek. “Only if you want to.” 

The weird thing was, he did want to tell him. Wanted to come out of hiding, even if just for a minute. To let Sam see him, even the ugliest parts. Especially the ugly parts. He wanted to trust Sam not to run and be grossed out. Or even if he was grossed out, to stay anyway. 

Boyfriends, right? Titled and claimed. That meant Dean belonged to Sam, even if he was a little fucked up inside. 

He blew out a long breath and said, “Yeah. You know how I told you about my first time…”

 

***

 

“My mother’s boyfriend liked to put me in a skirt before he fucked me,” Dean told the wall beyond Sam’s shoulder. 

He favored the Band-Aid ripping approach and Sam wasn’t ready. He could only blink for a long moment. 

His lip trembled, blood ran glacial. How could he have done so many things so wrong? This whole date had been a massive mistake and he didn’t even know. Did he know Dean at all?

When his lungs refilled, he took the boy’s face between his hands and waited until he was ready to meet Sam’s eyes.

Finally, Dean looked at him and attempted a smile that collapsed into a shaky sigh. “So, now you know that shit.” 

“It’s okay to cry.” 

“I cried my fucking eyes out back then. You cry enough for the both of us anyway.” 

Sam snickered without any trace of humor. It wouldn’t help Dean to fall to shreds, so he dropped his hands, though not his gaze. “When I was … little, I don’t know, maybe five… John told me that crying was for girls.” 

Dean nodded like he couldn’t agree more.

“That’s garbage. If it’s what you need —” 

“I don’t need anything, Sam. You asked, so I told you.” Dean sniffed, but his eyes were stone cold and dry. “Seriously. It’s over, and I’m over it.” 

Sam took a deep breath, and another. Calming himself as he pushed back a litany of inadequate statements and unhelpful questions. Ultimately, he wrapped a hand around Dean’s neck and pulled the boy into an embrace that he prayed would melt even a fraction of his pain. The best Sam could offer was silence and the balm of skin on skin. 

Dean accepted both and held on tight, hand curved over Sam’s shoulder, breath steady and deep on his neck. Sam closed his eyes, pressed his lips to Dean’s brow and wordlessly vowed to always keep him safe.


	48. Chapter 48

Dean's laughter was like a summer storm: sudden, brash, drenching Sam in warmth as he struggled to hide his grin. His boyfriend … Sam lost the battle, smiling widely at those words.  
  
Sam’s boyfriend could get a kick out of the stupidest, most banal thing while Sam could only caress the crossed ankles in his lap and shake his head in bewilderment. Search though he might, he never found anything that should be responsible for the bursts of hilarity that shook the whole couch.  
  
“God,” Dean said. “That’s so fucking funny.”  
  
It wasn’t, but Sam would have gladly bottled up the mindless dialogue or gotten a degree in Slapstick to keep Dean so carefree.  
  
During the commercial, he wiggled his toes between Sam's ribs. “What are you reading?”  
  
Sam held up the book so he could see the title: Entrepreneurial Spirit.  
  
“Boring.”  
  
He kicked it to the floor and climbed into Sam’s lap. The book was intriguing. Dean was better.  
  
He shifted his hips so he could rub off against Sam's rapidly responding cock. Sam cupped a perfectly round cheek in each hand and helped the kid maneuver. Catching Dean’s bottom lips between his teeth, Sam whispered, “That’s right. That's my boy.”  
  
Dean gasped as if he’d been burned or stung. Sam waited for a complaint. Instead, Dean braced himself on Sam's shoulders, breathing heavily through his sumptuous, parted lips.  
  
“Yeah, Dean.” Sam ran a palm down his back.  
  
He stared into those green eyes, cursing nature for the need to blink.The strain on Dean’s face echoed the effort of his beautifully twisting body and Sam was already close.  
  
Dean was closer.  He whimpered and groaned, back arched like a bow as he tensed in Sam's hands. Then he collapsed forward with his head on Sam’s neck, chest rising and falling like the first racehorse. Sam caressed his back in long strokes, praising him through his recovery, “You’re so hot, Dean. God, I love you.”  
  
“Shit. I'm going to have to change my pants.”  
  
Sam smiled. “Why are you even dressed?”  
  
“Why are you dressed, bich?” Dean backed off of his lap.  
  
“Because it's my house.”  
  
Dean chuckled and slipped to his knees.  
  
Sam brushed knuckles over his cheekbone. “I’m fine”  
  
“Hell yeah, you are. That's why I want that dick in my mouth.” Dean reached for the elastic waistband of Sam’s sweats.  
  
He swatted the grabby fingers. “Seriously, go change.”  
  
Dean hesitated for a second, rose on his knees and pecked Sam’s lips, earning himself a smack on the ass as he sashayed from the room.  
  
When he returned, it was with one of Sam's sweaters hanging from his shoulders. Quite possibly, the cutest thing in this life and the next.  
  
“What do you want for dinner?” Sam asked, once again failing to vanquish a smile.  
  
“Depends who's cooking?”  
  
“Your man is cooking.”  
  
“Then, my man can surprise me.” With that, Dean plopped onto the couch and put his feet back where they belonged, in Sam's lap, thereby revealing the unclothed, and newly aroused nature of his bottom half.  
  
   
  
***  
  
   
  
On the Tuesday before the long weekend, there was no game and no practice for a change.  
  
Dean waved at cheerleaders, whistling his way down the hall when Garth caught up to him. He squeezed his little buddy’s cheeks and sang, “Sunshine. When you’re with me I can fly.”  
  
Garth wriggled away without cracking a smile. “You have a minute?”  
  
“If you’re not going to be weird, sure.”  
  
“I've been having these dreams.”  
  
“That’s a weird start, Garth.”  
  
“Like… I know things about you I know that you never told me. Things you wouldn’t have told me. Like this thing.” Garth’s spindly hand touched the fabric over Dean’s birthmark.  
  
“You could have seen that in the shower.”  
  
“But I didn’t.”  
  
This wasn’t new. Garth had been saying strange shit for weeks, ever since Jody took up impermanent residence in his head. But she was gone. It should be over.  
  
One time, he’d looked Dean in the eye and murmured, “Impure blood.”  
  
Then, he’d spent the next few days ignoring texts, turning and walking the other way when Dean came down the hall. This was not an improvement.  
  
“And you were, like…” Garth closed his eyes, as if to see the memory more clearly. “On this ratty old couch, sucking Sam off. And I’m your mother, I think. But not ... It's not really clear. It's like my thoughts are all scrambled up with hers.”  
  
Dean grabbed his shoulders. “Listen. I hate to say this, but you sound fucking nuts.”  
  
“Yeah.” Garth nodded. “That’s pretty much how I feel.”  
  
“Do yourself a favor, man. Don’t tell people this shit.” Dean smacked his cheek, sharp enough to sting. “Now. Go home and eat some turkey.”  
  
Garth lumbered off and turned the corner as Dean exhaled into his hands, massaging his forehead as if that was going to fix anything.  
  
   
  
***  
  
   
  
Luna perched on a stack of phone books between Ruby and Sam. His mother seemed unable to put her phone down until she’d snapped a few thousand photos of them.  
  
Sam sent another telepathic apology across the table, but Dean was too busy forking food from Jo’s plate and nudging her with his elbow. Sam couldn’t even taste his dinner past the bile.  
  
"Sam?"  
  
“Hm?" He turned to face his mother.  
  
"Did you hear me?"  
  
"No. I'm sorry."  
  
"I asked how things are going at work."  
  
“Oh.”  
  
Ruby fed Luna a piece of pie. Dean never looked at them once while Sam tried to clear his mind enough to fake his way through a conversation.  
  
   
  
***  
  
   
  
Coach Winchester was watching them like a hungry hawk. For some reason, that didn’t stop Sam from staring at Dean the entirety of dinner.  
  
After dessert, Sam rose from the table and zeroed in, with this desperate look on his face like he wanted to crawl into Dean’s skin. Luckily, Ruby headed Sam off and corralled him onto the patio. Her hair had grown. Her dress was crushed velvet, like the one Sam had worn as Samantha, but black instead of that red wine color.  
  
They were standing so close. How the hell had those two ever fucked without Sam smothering her? She must have always been on top. Dean would have paid to be a beetle on that bedroom wall, watching Ruby ride the crap out of Sam, because there was no doubt that’s how it went down.  
  
Sam leaned on the railing so he was closer to her eye level while she animated whatever she was saying with her hands. They looked good together. And with Luna, they were this perfect postcard family. It was no wonder Mrs. Winchester kept taking pictures.  
  
Jo perched on her toes to rest her elbow on Dean’s shoulder. He slung an arm around her waist.  
  
"You’re going to drive yourself insane? Come play Checkers with me.” She took Dean's hand and led him into the living room.  
  
He let her push him into an armchair, dropping his body on the cushion with a sigh.  
  
"Uncle Dean, come see my mommy.”  
  
Luna and Mrs. Winchester were on the other sofa studying a thick photo album. Before Jo had retrieved the game, Luna climbed into Dean’s lap to show off her treasure.  
  
As if Dean didn’t know what Ruby looked like, Luna pointed out her mother in every picture, chirping over the purple bridesmaids’ dresses, and what looked like a million lilacs ,and how handsome her Daddy looked. She named her grandparents and members of the other side of the family while Dean winced at Sam’s dazzling, dimple-deep smile and the arm around his gorgeous bride.  
  
A heavy hand fell on Dean’s shoulder, startling him  
  
"What is ... Oh, wow. Where'd you get that, munchkin?" Sam’s voice was lower than usual, quiet and strained.  
  
His mother laughed. "I thought I’d show Luna what a fetching couple her parents were, once upon a time."  
  
Ruby’s vanilla scented perfume tickled Dean’s nose as she sat on the other arm of his chair and pointed at a picture of Sam laughing with a group of guys. “Oh, my goodness. When is the last time you talked to Brady?"  
  
"Hey. May I ..." Sam gingerly commandeered the book.  
  
Dean stood, Ruby slid into his place and he sat Luna in her lap. Face heated, nose stinging, he strode out of the place before he embarrassed himself.  
  
   
  
***  
  
   
  
Sam took one look at the person in the photo. Had he ever been that young? Had he really ever been that person?  
  
He handed the album to Ruby and followed Dean out of the kitchen, letting the screen door slam shut behind him. When he finally found Dean around the side of the house, he was lighting a cigarette. Sam swallowed the big brotherly/adult commentary about smoking and whispered, "Hey."  
  
Dean raised his head skyward and contorted his mouth so the smoke blew away and not directly into Sam's eyes. "How'd you make yourself look so happy?"  
  
His voice was shaky, and he shrank away from Sam’s attempt to touch his face.  
  
"I was, in a way,” Sam dropped his hand. “I was relieved. My mom was over the moon. My dad was proud. Ruby ... everyone I cared about was happy and it made me feel good to do that for them."  
  
"Two years?" Dean took another drag.  
  
"You can’t possibly be jealous of Ruby?” Sam couldn’t stop the snicker.  
  
"I'm not jealous."  
  
"Good, because ... God." Sam stepped closer and reached for Dean's hips.  
  
"Knock it off." Dean shoved him with his elbows and looked around to make sure no one could see them.  
  
"Look, Ruby ... I loved her. But that whole thing was a lie."  
  
“Whatever, Sam."  
  
"I hate when you say that.”  
  
Dean extinguished the butt of his smoke against the brick wall behind him.  
  
“I love you. You know that." Sam trapped Dean between his hands and leaned in for a kiss to stop this madness.  
  
He received, instead, a fist slammed against his mouth. "I said stop it."  
  
Stunned and with his left ear ringing, Sam stumbled back. As Dean stalked away, he touched the corner of his lip to check for blood.  
  
   
  
***  
  
   
  
"Wheee!!!" Luna pumped her little legs every time Jo pushed her swing.  
  
Dean chewed on his thumbnail and watched them from the fence. Then he dragged his feet across the mulch to stand at Jo's side with his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the chill in the air and in his gut. He had hit Sam, for fuck’s sake. So, now he was the kind of asshole who punched his boyfriend. Not that he had hurt Sam, but Dean had suffered enough of those jerks in his life not to want to become one of them.  
  
“You okay?”  
  
He sucked his tongue and waited for Luna’s happiness to make him feel better. “It’s so stupid. There were like a hundred people at that wedding. I can’t tell anybody.”  
  
“You could.” Jo looked him, brown eyes wide and hopeful. “Have you thought about that? I mean ... would you want to be out?”  
  
Grey clouds gathered, promising rain Dean needed to soak him to the bone.  
  
“You know, I thought he was trying to sabotage you.” Jo pushed Luna again. “Fuck up your life because you’ve replaced him. Everyone around here knows that you're better than he was. I figured he wanted to destroy you.”  
  
“He’s not like that.”  
  
She shrugged. “I can see it now. He adores you, like I do. Only you love him back.”  
  
“Jo. I --”  
  
“It’s fine,” she said too fast to be true. “You two … I guess. You, like, complete each other or some dumb shit.” Her laugh was bitter, but not cruel. “And I'm sorry I was such a--”  
  
“You were always looking out for me.”  
  
“Always will.” She nodded and stepped in to give Luna another push. “I’ve thought about this. You have to tell Daddy.”  
  
“Please.” Dean turned as if to walk away.  
  
“Listen to me. Let him help you.”  
  
“He's not going to help me, Jo.” Dean shivered. Should have brought his coat.  
  
“If he understands that you guys are serious …”  
  
Dean laughed and held his head in both hands. “Can you, please, just trust me on this? Your dad does not want me and Sam together. He doesn't want me to be some kind of ground breaking, gay quarterback holding your brother’s hand on national television, okay? Nobody fucking wants to see that shit. Football is about kicking ass, not licking it.”  
  
“That was too much information.”  
  
“You know what I'm saying.”  
  
“I hear you,” Jo said. “But you need to give people a chance to be better. You can be something bigger than just an athlete. You could be an icon, Dean. A legend just for your bravery. And there are people who want to see that. People need that kind of hero.”  
  
Dean’s heart was doing a jig it hadn’t kicked up before. It didn’t exactly feel good. Luna went on swinging, but it was his stomach that was falling from the bottom of his churning insides. He shook his head and kicked at wood chips.  
  
“You could--”  
  
“That's enough,” he snapped, sounding angrier than he was.  
  
“If anyone finds out any other way--”  
  
“Finds out about what?” Luna asked, looking over her shoulder at Dean.  
  
“Nothing Lulu,” Jo said.  
  
“Yeah. Nothing, sweetie.” Dean caught her by her ribs and lifted her from the swing. “Nothing you have to worry about. Come on. There's somebody I want you to meet.”  
  
   
  
***  
  
Mildred presented each of them with a bowl of ice cream. She ruffled Dean's hair and wouldn't stop telling Luna how she was pretty like her mom, even though she should have said she was tough like Jo or smart like her dad.  
  
Anyway, Mildred’s was safe.  
  
Dean slid Luna’s bowl in front of himself. “You got an apple?”  
  
Mildred washed, peeled and sliced it before she gave Luna her treat.  
  
“You ever wish you had grandkids?” Dean asked through a mouthful of cherry vanilla.  
  
"Well, in order to have grandkids you have to have kids. And since I never wanted those, I guess the answer is no."  
  
"I know Mrs. Winchester invited you to dinner. Why would you sit over here by yourself, you old biddy?”  
  
“What’s a biddy?” Luna asked.  
  
“Nothing, honey. This skunk just doesn’t know how to talk to ladies.” Mildred patted her head. "You know I prefer my own company to anyone else’s." She frowned and pointed. "What happened to your hand?"  
  
Dean stopped flexing his fingers. If he broke a finger when he hit Sam it would be justice.  
  
"And how is your mom, sweetie?"  
  
"She's good," Luna answered and tucked in a whole slice.  
  
"You know Ruby?" Dean asked.  
  
"Of course, I know Ruby. She was married to Sam, who grew up next door. Lovely girl."  
  
Dean shoved the half-empty bowl from in front of him.  
  
"Really? Is that why you’re sulking around here?” Mildred picked up the ice cream and started eating it. “You’re that kind of brat."  
  
Before Dean could think of an appropriately snarky, but not entirely disrespectful comeback, the doorbell rang.  
  
   
  
***  
  
   
  
Sam gave his little daughter a half smile. "Your mom is looking all over for you. You guys are about to get ready to go back to the hotel."  
  
"No!" Luna latched onto Dean's neck.  
  
He wrapped an arm around her, and petted her hair before handing her to Sam. “I think I'm gonna head out, Mil. You need anything?"  
  
Mildred glanced at Sam. "You are one stubborn kid. Here, let me walk her over. Haven't had a chance to say hi to Ruby yet.”  
  
When Sam put Luna down, Mildred took her hand. Dean started to make his way out of the door behind them, but Sam blocked his path with an arm. "Excuse me."  
  
When Sam didn't move, Dean shook his head and turned to go out of the back door.  
  
"Dean."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I want to tell them."  
  
Dean stood with his stiff back to Sam.  
  
“At least the people closest to us. We shouldn't hide from them. Shouldn’t have to.”  
  
“They know,” Dean said. “Jo. Ruby. Your dad fucking knows.”  
  
“Then, we should own it.”  
  
Dean turned and huffed out a sigh. “I’m sorry I hit you.”  
  
“It’s okay.”  
  
“No, it’s not okay. And it won’t happen again.” Dean shifted his stance. “Look … We don’t need to do that. It's nobody's business.”  
  
Sam clenched his jaw and nodded. It was the answer he had feared and expected.


	49. Chapter 49

Cassie’s sleek, black curls bounced as she bounded down from the bleachers. More than a few of Dean’s teammates tracked her sassy walk toward the bench. Still riding his post-win high, he couldn’t help the smirk; he’d already been between those slender thighs.

Maybe it was the journalist thing, but he could imagine telling Cassie everything: Sam, Jody, all of it. He wanted to spill his stupid, steaming guts, watch her face go from fascinated to horrified, and then cry into her hair.

He wasn’t going to do that, though. He stood with his back straight while she rose on her toes and kissed his cheek. “How you been?”

“Alright.”

“That’s good.” She glanced between his face and the notepad in her hand. “Is this awkward?”

“I should have called?”

It had occurred to him, but he didn't have anything to say and there was a shit ton more pressing issues in his life than this girl’s opinion of him.

“I’m actually really glad you didn’t. It was fun, but…” Cassie rolled her eyes as if she was about to lecture him, herself or both, but then she smiled. “So, Gators are going to state. Do you have any quotes for the follow-up article?”

“Nah. It’s good to see you.”

“You, too,” she said. “Great game, by the way.”

Both of them leaned in and then away from one another. There didn’t need to be another hug.

As she walked away Dean said, “See you.”

“Son.” The hand on his shoulder was as much of a public claiming as that word.

Dean wanted to refuse John Winchester’s pride, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Sam had spent most of his life in the sunshine of his father’s loving support. It was still too fresh for Dean, slicking through his veins like a substance they warn about in PE.

“That was the best damn game that was in you.” The hands on Dean’s shoulder gave a firm shake.

“Thank you, sir.”

Coach Winchester’s dark eyes glinted under the field lights. “These boys are going to follow you all the way that title.”

“Yes, sir.”

The man nodded and patted his arm. “You've worked your ass off, and you deserve every bit of the good that's coming to you.”

Without warning, the old man pulled him to his chest. Dean’s arms dangled in mid-air before they raised at the coach’s broad flanks. Just as he was about to close them and complete the hug, it was over.

“Hey. Pretty girl, by the way.”

Dean glanced in the direction Cassie had disappeared.

“You ought to bring her to dinner sometime.”

 

***

 

Dean’s cheeks puffed up like a jazz trumpet player with the strain it took not to call out. Christ Pratt was riding a motorcycle through a herd of velociraptors. The only thing that could force Dean to close his eyes on that level of awesome was Sam’s fingers digging into his thighs while he took Dean all the way down his gifted throat.

“Fuck, Sam.” One hand smacked the armrest while the other twisted in Sam’s hair.

Sam’s eyes shone glassy in the dark theater. He stole a breath and went back to work. Dean shook his head, unable to find adequate words of appreciation. He cupped Sam’s cheek in his hand.

“You like it?”

“Fuck, yeah, Baby.”

Sam’s smile alone was nearly enough to send him over the edge, but he followed it with teasing licks and cool breaths along the side of Dean’s shaft. He shuddered in his seat, knees knocking against Sam’s sides. Generally, Dean wasn’t the kind of person to tell a guy how to do his job, but this was an emergency. “Take it. Sam. Fucking take it in your mouth.”

“Just wait, bossy.”

Dean lifted his hips from the seat trying to drive himself between Sam’s lips.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Fine. Just fucking suck me.”

Finally, Sam took Dean’s situation seriously, engulfed him with that hot, perfect mouth, bobbing his head, snaking his hand under Dean’s shirt to pinch his left nip. Dean’s toes curled in his sneakers. He squeezed the hand on his chest and choked back his shout while Sam swallowed his cum.

“Holy—”

Sam sank back into his chair and wiped the corner of his mouth, leaving the naughty grin in place.

Dean made like a smokestack, exhaling straight to the dimmed lights and ancient rafters. His man was a miracle worker to have found a cinema open this late, playing old-ish movies for five bucks a pop. Dean had been able to treat Sam for a change. More importantly, they were alone in the theater.

When his breath had returned to normal, Dean rolled his head on the back of his seat and smiled. “You’re so good at that.”

Sam grinned and pretended to be engrossed in the movie when he couldn’t possibly have any idea what was going on; he'd spent the last 20 minutes on his knees.

Dean curled a hand around his neck, toying idly with the soft strands. “You growing your hair out?”

Sam’s shrugged, still without turning to meet Dean’s eyes. “Would you like that?”

“Yeah.”

Sam was silent a while. Then, he leaned close to whisper, “What do you want for Christmas?”

“Nothing, Sam. Do not buy me shit?”

He faced Dean with a look of disappointment like he’d already put a down payment on a Porsche.

“I'm serious.”

Sam’s hands flew up, all innocence and mischief. “I will not spend a single penny.”

Dean nodded, though he hardly believed it. “What do you want?”

“You. With a bow around your neck. Tied to my bed for … at least a day. A weekend, if I can get it.”

Dean chuckled. When Sam didn’t, he asked, “What? Seriously?”

“Very seriously.” Sam brought Dean’s hand to his very serious crotch.

“Shit.”

“Mmmm.” Sam pressed his face to Dean’s neck, breath warm and moist on his skin. “Are you still watching this?”

“I thought you were curious about Chris Pratt.”

“He’s cute. I’m more interested in you.” He swiped a thumb over Dean’s mouth and nipped his ear.

 

***

Fingers beneath his arms made Sam drop the keys in self-protection. As he leaned to pick them up, Dean took full advantage, gripping Sam’s hips, standing on his tiptoes so he could grind against his ass. His hands slithered up Sam’s shirt, clever fingers pinching his nipples too hard. “Christ, Dean. Can we go inside?”

“How about I nail you to the door like the 95 Theses?” He said and tugged Sam’s belt open.

“Apocryphal, but still hot.” Sam shifted his weight and leaned forward, lifting Dean onto his back as he reached to the floor to retrieve the keys.

They stumbled into the apartment, Sam barely managing to shut the door before the kid had knocked him against it with a hand on his throat. The other continued working on his fly.

Dean’s eyes fixed on Sam’s as he palmed his erection. “This for me?”

“You want it?”

Dean licked his smirk.

Something moved in Sam’s peripheral vision. Dean turned to follow his gaze and backed away. “Fuck.”

Cas-Angela stood in the archway to the living room, with an arm around her waist and a hand on her face watching like they were on pay-per-view. Dean let out a tiny breath and gawked. He ripped his arm from Sam’s hand, disappeared up the hall and into the bathroom, slamming the door for good measure.

“He looks well.”

Sam blinked, straining for a handle on the situation. “What are you doing here? Angela, we said—”

“I needed to see you.”

“No.” Sam raised his hands, avoiding her advances. “You have your own place. You can't just show up here. I changed the locks for a reason.”

“It hurts my feelings when you do that. And I don’t feel so good.” She hung her head, shedding fat tears. “I think it's the hormones.”

“Then stop taking them.”

“I can’t. I need them.” She ran her hands through matted, shoulder-length hair.

“Please. Go home.”

“Sammy.” Angela sucked in her snot, wiping away what was left with her palm.

“Clean yourself up and go home.”

She pouted and bowed her head.

“I mean it. Ten minutes, you go.”

By the time Sam reached the bedroom, Dean was standing in the middle of the floor studying his shoes.

“I can expl--”

“Why wouldn't you tell me he was back?”

“First of all,” Sam said. “She's identifying as a woman, now.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “You shitting me?”

“No. He goes by Angela. And I didn't tell you, because I know how you feel about him. Her.”

Dean took a moment to process the update. “I ‘feel’ like you and Castiel have been trying to mind fuck me into oblivion since I met you. It’s like it's you two against me. And I can’t compete.”

“Dean.” Sam reached for him.

Dean stepped out of reach.

“Can you calm down?” Sam moved toward him.

Dean backed away, as if it were a dance. “I’m going to get a drink. Please tell me you have liquor in there.”

“Do you want me get it?” Sam offered, in a feeble attempt to recover some peace between them.

“You think I’m scared of your fucking ex-girlfriend?”

Apparently, that evening, Dean’s preferred means of communicating displeasure was the slamming of doors.

Sam tensed at the crack of it. After a few minutes of silent self-reproach, he decided on a shower to clear his head.

 

***

 

Dean’s brilliant plan had been to get drunk, go back to the room and give Sam the cold shoulder/limp dick combo for the rest of the night. There was no contingency for dealing with Castiel’s horseshit.

“Look at you,” Cas whined. “It’s no wonder, is it? I’d trade me in, too, for a model like you.”

Dean took two steps past the sniveling mess on the sofa and stopped. “What's your deal, man?”

Castiel stared up at him with bloodshot blue eyes too bleary-wide. 

“What the hell are you on?”

“Estrogen and painkillers, sweetheart,” he swayed as he spoke.

“Why do you keep doing this? Showing up. Playing pitiful.” Dean scoured the floor-length housedress and the longish, unwashed hair.

The guy’s face was covered in zits like a frigging pre-teen. A scar had faded, but settled in the corner of his mouth. Long gone was the foxy, fuckable lunatic he’d first encountered. This guy was just a mess, but Dean was well past the point of sympathy. “Sam has made it clear that you two are not together anymore.”

“I didn't think it would be this hard living without him." 

Dean turned up his nose as Castiel wiped snot on the sleeve of his dress. He had about two seconds to consider what the madman was saying before Cas continued, “Do you want to see my pussy?”

“I'm sorry, what?”

“My pussy?” Castiel stood, bent over and hiked his dress to his waist. “I need to show someone.”

He pulled down panties that were inlaid with a soggy, pink maxi pad to reveal a mangled, swollen mass of skin and sutures. Dean covered his mouth with his hand. “Oh, my God.”

His guts lurched, on the verge of spilling buttered popcorn and gastric acid onto the carpet. If he’d been religious, he’d have crossed himself six times.

“It's still healing, but it’ll be beautiful,” Castiel said, adjusting his clothes. “Kind of a Frankenpussy at this point.” He held his pointer finger to his mouth. Was supposed to wait, but I just wanted it gone. They’ll do anything in Costa Rica.”

Dean blinked for a few eons until his brain caught up. “You know Sam's not into pussy.”

Castiel shrugged. “But you are, right?”

Having filled his lifetime quota for insanity in one conversation, Dean reconvened his long march to the kitchen. “Night, Castiel.”

Quicker than he would have expected, Cas caught his arm. “It’s Angela.”

“Don’t touch me, you junkless maniac.”

Retracting the hand, Castiel whimpered, “Stay with me. Sammy’s angry. I shouldn't have come.”

“No shit.”

Castiel grabbed Dean’s hand again. Please.”

Once again, Dean shook him off and wiped it on his pants leg, as if the crazy might be contagious.

“Wasn’t Sam amazing on Halloween?” Castiel asked. “He worked so hard for you.”

“Why the hell do you know about that?”

“Who’d you think coached him, dingbat?” Cas smiled.

“I did not know you were involved.” Dean turned to leave the room, seething at Sam, Castiel and himself and the whole dumb world.

“Do you really fuck him? Because I can’t see it.”

Dean’s teeth gnashed, blood burning like liquid fire and brimstone. “Anything he hasn’t told you?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean any harm, honey.”

Dean rolled his eyes.

“I know it’s hard to believe, after… everything … I’ve put Sammy through. But I…” Castiel sniffed. “I’m a different person now. You have to believe that.”

“I don’t have to do shit.”

“No, you don’t,” Castiel said, even as his earnest eyes pleaded.

Dean shook his head to break the trance.

Whatever game this was had a convincing edge to it. Cas closed his eyes and hugged his arms tight around his still-flat-for-now chest. “We’re sister wives, aren’t we?”

Dean could only gape at Castiel/Angela/Whatever-the-Fuck. His/her eyes batted heavily and shut as s/he slumped back against a pillow, apparently passed out. 

Dean’s head was spinning and the only thing he knew for sure was that he needed to drink. A-fucking-lot.

When he came from the kitchen with his palm curled around a bottle of Jack - bless Sam’s beautiful heart - Castiel was shaking like a crack fiend.

“Fuck.” Dean dropped his drink and rushed to the lunatic’s side. He hated the guy, but he wasn’t going to just let him die. “Cas. Castiel.”

He rolled the guy onto his back and was just about to shout for Sam when blue eyes opened and Castiel blew out a loud breath. “Holy crap.”

His gaze roved around the room until it landed on Dean. A smile spread slowly over his lipsticked mouth.

“What the hell are you grinning at?”

“This is amazing.” Castiel gasped and admired both sides of his raised hands, acting as if he was tripping on LSD.

He threw back his head and laughed at the ceiling, trembling like he was mid-orgasm. “Did you know about this?”

“Know what?” Dean asked.

“You didn’t, did you? Oh, Castiel, you naughty thing.”

Dean had suffered all the lunacy he could stomach. He clasped Castiel’s hand to help him stand. “Get up. I’m going to call you a cab.”

“Just give me a minute, you little idiot.”

“Jody?”

Castiel/Angela/Jody grinned, eyes glazed over and still grinning like s/he was stoned.

Dean checked over his shoulders. Although Sam’s shower was still running, he lowered his voice. “I asked you not to possess my friends.”

“You don’t have friends, Dean. Everyone either wants to fuck you or kill you.” Jody rubbed her hand down Castiel’s neck like some chick in a soap commercial.

“What are you doing?”

“She’s so—“

“That’s not a she.”

Jody shook Castiel’s head, lips pursed, somewhat sobered by annoyance. “SO, I raised a bigot?”

Dean winced at the accusation. He wasn’t a bigot. He was a realist.  
With a demon for a mother. Who was he to judge anybody?

She sat up and held out Castiel Angela’s hand as if Dean was going to kiss a ring he/she wasn’t wearing. “Come on. It’s time.”

Dean sucked in a breath and held it.

“He isn’t going to hurt you,” she promised. “He only wants to hear you declare your loyalty.”

“Jody.”

The moment her skin touched his, they were no longer standing in Sam’s living room…

 

***

… but in a large chamber lit by a few candles. Incense smoke, too earthy-sweet, made Dean’s eyes water. He wiped them and gazed at the ceiling, twenty feet overhead. Human skulls adorned the posts at the top of a black quilted canopy bed. The walls were covered with tapestries depicting carnage and destruction in deep, wintry hues. “This is what, exactly?”

“Home. For seven hundred years, this was all I knew.” Jody grazed Castiel’s eyes over the place.

The Hermione Granger accent was back.

“Why are you talking like that?”

“It’s the dialect of my father and my teacher, Arthur Ketch, whom you’ve met.”

“No hard feelings, right, lad?” Ketch, that asshole, was inhabiting an overweight, middle-aged black guy, but he spoke with the same unholier-than-thou English accent as when he was planning to slice Dean into bacon.

Dean jumped back and stumbled against the black quilted canopy bed. Skulls on spikes adorned the top of the posts and his heart pounded against his chest like a fist. “You stay the fuck away from me.”

“He’s alright,” Jody assured. “Truly, Dean. He was only following orders.”

Ketch’s mouth was curled into a poor imitation of a smile that looked more like a lizard wooing a cricket. The safe side was as far away from that maniac as possible, and that’s where Dean stayed.

“You see, my mother was a medieval witch.” Jody pointed at a portion of the tapestry where a woman was burning at the stake. “My father rescued me. Took me from my human body, darkened my soul and placed me under Arthur’s care.”

“Can you get out of Castiel? It’s weirding me out.”

“Her name is Angela.” Jody smiled and stroked her throat. “Castiel has … left the building, so to speak.” She squeezed blue eyes tight and covered her heart with her hand.

“Truly a marvel, Princess,” Ketch said.

Jody smiled and dragged a golden chest from beneath the bed. She popped a lock and opened it to reveal - nothing but a plush, white cushion. “Do you remember this? You slept here.”

Dean shook his head, grateful to have forgotten. There weren’t even air holes in the thing.

She shut the world’s weirdest cradle and took a breath. “Father’s calling. Remember. Be respectful, but you needn’t fear him. You need only say yes.”

“I hate to say this, Jody, but I liked it better when you were dead.”

Jody touched his hand again and they were no longer in her quarters, but surrounded by a small crowd of murmuring onlookers. A pudgy, balding man in an immaculately tailored undertaker’s suit sat in a chair on a concrete slab in the middle of the room. Dean recognized him immediately as the character who had healed his ankle. But that had been a dream.

For the time being, the man wasn’t interested in Dean at all. He studied Angela with one raised brow. “Where on Earth did you find that suit?”

“Sam Winchester’s former consort.” Jody smoothed a hand over Castiel/Angela’s greasy hair.

“Do wonders never cease?”

Castiel didn’t possess a fraction of his former hotness, yet Jody, her father and everyone else were jizzing themselves over him. Her. Whatever. They all acted like Dean wasn’t even there.

Dean scoffed, winning attention he didn’t actually want. He held his breath and wished he could dissolve through concrete.

“Dean Winchester --”

Dean cut his eyes at Jody’s use of that last name.

“Fergus Crowley.”

Crowley looked like CEO of a firm whose office happened to be in the dank, moldy cellar of some freaky abandoned house. He regarded Dean like a three-day-old bean burrito.

The distaste was mutual. If you could pick any body, why you would choose that one? Dean had enough intelligence to keep that question to himself, though. “You’re her father, in what sense?”

“The most literal.” Crowley smirked and answered in the Queen’s English.

“So, I'm...”

“Wasting my time.” Crowley fingers tapped on his armrest.

“And this is Hell?” The place was spooky, sure, but not that awful. No flames or horned beasts.

“An outpost. Do you think I’d have my little girl down there rolling in the sulfur?  
Rule number one of evil leadership, form no attachments for your opponents to use against you. And if it occurs by accident, keep your enemies in the dark about their existence. You’ll learn all that in my employ. Josephine.” Crowley held out his hand and Jody knelt at his side. “This lovely girl was my pride and joy, until she betrayed me for a primate.”

Jody’s head craned back. The tendons in her neck bulged as if someone were pulling on her hair, although Crowley was smiling like a gargoyle.

“Father, forgive me.”

Dean gritted his teeth and took a step forward. “I’m here. That’s what you want, right? Just fucking let her go.”

“Brave little fucker. Or is it stupidity? Hard to tell.” Crowley released his hold on Jody and surveyed Dean with renewed interest.

He flicked a finger and Dean clutched his chest. The sting quickly became unbearable searing. He shouted, breathing in the stink of his own burning flesh as he fell forward onto his knees beside his mother. She writhed and clawed at her mark in the same way.

Just as suddenly, the pain subsided. Dean peeled back his shirt and examined his birthmark, now tender to the touch, raised, raw and still ached as if he’d been freshly branded.

Birthmark. What other lies had she told?

“I’m a reasonable man, Dean Winchester. However, your father sorely disappointed me.”

Dean looked to Jody for explanation, but she only gazed like Crowley was the sun.

“Nearly thirty-four years ago, Johnny-boy and I made a perfectly routine pact. I fulfilled my end of our deal. He did not.”

“Deal?”

“Confidential,” Crowley said. “You understand.”

Dean stood there with his mouth hanging open.

“But I’ll make an exception, since it’s you. Your father was required to provide unfettered access to the blood of his first born and to keep him pure for 18 years. A very simple contract,” Crowley spread his hands before folding them again on his paunch. “However, he called my sneaky little cunt daughter and made a counterdeal, which I consider to be rather disrespectful. Don’t you agree that someone should pay for that sort of underhanded dealing.”

Dean’s mind halted and struggled to digest the words: blood, first-born, contract.

“It was incredibly foolish of him to renege, because the fine print clearly stated that any breach and the child belongs to me, body and soul,” Crowley continued. “For the record, I never received a single drop of your blood. And now, it is rather impure and entirely useless. I would be within my rights to feed you to my hellhounds or make parchment from your skin, or whatever else suits my fancy. You understand?”

There was nothing Dean could say, so he remained silent.

“Now, the original deal lapses on midnight of your 18th birthday, when you become your own man, according to your culture. Josephine has said that you wish to be useful to the throne. And I am willing to let bygones go by,” Crowely said. “To allow the original contract to lapse and make a fresh agreement with you, rather than judge you for your father’s past indiscretions. How does that sound?”

It sounded like a bunch of insanity. Dean nodded.

“In return for your service, I’ll provide a long life in the luxury of your choosing. That little bit with the bone, nothing. You can be president. Does that sound fair?”

“Better than becoming paper.” Dean forced the joke.

Crowley chuckled. “Indeed. But you’re no politician. As I recall, your poison is American football, is it? Every bit as good as Rock n’ Roll or Hollywood for what I have in mind. The lemmings follow you to the ends of the earth and dive off. I’ll take up from there. A very simple position in soul recruitment.”

“Sending people to Hell?” Dean asked. “Real Hell, not this dump?”

Crowley shrugged. “Nudging, to be more accurate. Beguiling. Neither you nor I can make the final decision. In the end, it’s up to the individual soul, but one can certainly be instrumental in… shall we say, guiding.”

“And if I say no?”

“You won’t.” Crowley snapped his fingers.

Dean wheeled around in a room lit by torches and reeking of piss.

“I’ve enjoyed watching you with your pets,” Crowley said. “When you come to work for me, any time you report here, you're welcome to bring them to our kennel.”

Dean flinched as the crack of a whip was followed closely by a girl’s scream. He turned as Jo suffered another blow. Her arms were out wide like Christ without the cross, wrists cuffed to two poles.

“That one’s hard to break, isn’t she?” Crowley frowned and clicked his tongue. “I’d say she requires the most vigorous attention.”

“Let her go.” Dean moved to her rescue.

Jo shrieked, legs flailing as she was hoisted into the air by a rope around her hair. A hooded goon clamped her nipples while some hideous, reptilian-beast-thing lapped between her legs.

“Don’t worry. We’ll take good care of her,” Crowley called above her agonized squeals.

“Let her —” Dean shouted, then stumbled backwards as Luna was carried in on a huge silver tray surrounded by vegetables.

Her little hands and feet were bound, teary eyes wide open, a screech trapped in her throat by the apple between her teeth. Dean abandoned Jo's side to chase the men who were carrying her.

“Now, this one … This is a gem, isn’t he?”

Sam was led in on his hands and knees on a leash attached to a spiked collar. His wet hair clung to his down-turned face.

Dean froze, clambering for the right reaction. “Sam?”

“Don’t worry. He likes it.” Crowley snapped and they all vanished.

Dean spun frantically, heart slamming against his ribs, bile and blood flooding his bitten tongue.

“That all just indicates my preferences.” Crowley shrugged. “You can do with your pets as you please. Decorate the walls with them. I don't care.”

“Jody.” Nauseous, Dean panted, “Get me the fuck out of here.”

As sure as if he’d clicked his heels three times, Dean stood in Sam’s living room, knees weak and drenched in sweat.

Castiel. Angela was asleep on the couch.

Dean dashed to Sam’s room, abandoning his bottle where it had fallen and spilled out onto the carpet.

Sam’s eyes opened the moment Dean shoved open the door. He grimaced, like he’d eaten something foul. “Time is it?”

Dean sat on the edge of the bed and ran his fingers over Sam’s damp hair. From the shower. It had to be.

“Weirdest dream.” Sam rubbed his furrowed forehead. “I was all chained up like … a dog. And Luna ... God, I can’t even say that out loud. And there was this other guy. In a suit.”

Sam neglected to mention that Angela and Jo were there. Or that Dean had stood there watching. Helpless. 

Dean quaked, goose flesh plaguing his skin.

“Creepy as hell.” Sam shuddered and then laughed at himself.

His head tilted back as he yawned. A row of evenly spaced pink points dotted his thick neck, as if he’d been wearing a spiked choker that was a bit too tight.

 

***

 

Dean shivered like he was looking through a ghost and seeing Sam.

“Hey.” Sam touched his wrist.

“You have to go. Either you do or I do.”

“What?” Sam laughed, rubbing the crud from his eyes. “Is this another one of your epiphanies?”

“You need to get away from me.” Dean said, breathless. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“Are you drinking?” Sam had already smelled it when he came in.

It was time to stop providing this kid with alcohol. Sam should have known that before he started down that road. Alcoholism ran in the family. Their dad had kicked it and was getting kicked around by it again.

Dean shook his head and didn’t seem able to stop. Sometimes, Sam wished he could peel open that skull and find out what made this beautiful boy tick. He reached up and stroked a hand over Dean’s troubled face. “Talk to me.”

“You need to go to Florida. You need to go be with Luna.”

“Luna has me.”

“Not full time. She … You...”

Sam sighed. “We’ll see. I'll think about it. Maybe after you graduate, we can—”

“No. You need to get out of here, Sam. Like, as soon as possible. You have to go.”


	50. Chapter 50

DECEMBER 2

“Hey.” Jo stepped into his path again and Dean tried to walk around her. “Hey!”

She finally shoved him so hard he clanged into a locker and dropped his backpack. He knelt to pick it up without saying a word. People were staring. Dean ignored them and focused on his breath.

“What the hell, Dean? You just move out of my parent’s place and now you won’t talk to me?” Jo pushed him again. “I know you’re staying at Mildred’s, you moron.”

Life was so much better when Jo was on his side, but Dean refused to argue or even look at her.

“Why are you being like this?”

The answers were easy. First of all, he wanted nothing to do with her blood-dealing father. Second and more important, he couldn’t put Jo in danger. Just like Sam and Luna, he needed her safe so that he could stay sane. He’d miss the Impala, but a few things took precedence.

“You are the biggest asshole on earth.” Jo punched a locker and stormed off.

She wasn’t wrong. Dean should be halfway across the country, hiding out in some fallout shelter, praying to deities that don’t exist.  
But he was going to give Garth’s Plan a chance, not that Dean had any confidence it would work. It was just more pleasant facing the end with a friend than submitting without a fight. Either way, Dean would probably wind up doing a belly flop off a bridge the night before his birthday.

 

****

 

Sam opened the small steel, wall-mounted door to the electricity panel in his brand new, fifty-year-old house. The inspector had assured him that everything ‘looked terrific.’ Now Sam was using his cellphone’s flashlight app to study unmarked switches and a spaghetti of open wires.

It looked like his life.

What the hell was wrong with him? Overnight, he’d abandoned his place in Kansas City and found a rent to own in Sky Lake, Florida, because a teenager told him to.  
Because Dean was right. Sam had been thinking of making this move from the moment he'd learned about Luna. It's why he already knew the market so well. He'd considered coming down here, but with Dean, after graduation. Florida State was a four hour drive he’d do that every weekend if Dean didn’t want to fly down.  
But Sam was still recovering from the whiplash of this decision. Dean had sworn he wasn't pushing Sam away in punishment for Cas/Angela. He'd made it seem like the apocalypse was nigh, and Sam was no match for his Carpe diem kind of urgency.

He was no match for Dean. Anything the boy wanted, Sam tried to be.

“Go, give her the father I never had.”

So Sam went - looking back all the way - waiting to become a pillar of salt.

His sigh reverberated in the empty basement. He could have called an electrician, but it would take hours, if not days to get someone out to look. It couldn’t have been that complicated; just a matter of finding the right connection.

A fierce jolt of electricity bit its way up his right arm. Sam howled and sucked the burnt fingertip into his mouth. “Shit.”

 

***

 

John Winchester hovered at the door to his classroom, and Dean stared straight at the white board.

“Dean?” Mrs. Holcomb repeated and pointed. “Coach wants with a word with you.”

Coach could kiss both of his ass cheeks, choke on shit and die. Dean let the man stand there for another full minute before he sucked his teeth and pushed back his chair as noisily as it would scrape across the linoleum.

The moment the door shut, the coach lit into him. “Where the hell were you? You missed practice, boy.”

A V was burrowed deep into the skin between his bushy brows. His thick lower lip drawn tight beneath flaring nostrils.

This was his father.

The man who had hand-delivered him to a demon. There was only one sure stake for this fucker’s heart.

“I quit.”

Winchester’s mouth fell open like black smoke would fly out. He promptly shut it, blinking rapidly before he spoke again.

“That is not one of the options here. You can leave the house, but you are part of this team. You will--”

“I will never touch a fucking football again as long as I live.”

“What the hell--”

“I know.” Dean’s entire body trembled. “I know everything. Okay? About what you did. So, just fucking stay away for me or I swear to God, I will go to Mary and tell it all.”

Shaking, he reached for the knob.

The coach’s hand on his arm on his arm was followed by the crack of knuckle on nose. “You don’t get to fucking touch me.”

Winchester stumbled back, blood already gushing between his fingers. Dean spat on the old man's shoe, tilted his chin toward the ceiling and strode down the hall.

That was enough education for one day.

 

***

 

Luna clapped while Sam pumped up an air mattress in the middle of the living room. She giggled as he set up the flashlights he’d promised for their camp-in. Sam had naively agreed she could eat Lunchables, which turned out to be low quality American Bento, and he vowed to unpack his kitchen things the following morning. “So, what are we going give your mom for Hanukkah?”

“When’s Uncle Dean coming?” She stuffed in a mini hotdog.

“I don’t know, sweetie. We’re just going to have to have fun without him.”

He couldn't even blame her for the skeptical expression.

“We’re going to have so much fun that we don’t even notice he’s not here.”

Sam’s house was nothing like the overblown luxury of the beachfront place he’d leased over the summer, but it was typical for the neighborhood. It was a middle American nightmare with 3 beds, 2 baths, and a sunny quarter acre lot behind the patio. Five times too big for a single man. Even with Luna there, their voices echoed off the walls like they would in a cathedral. Maybe that would change when he’d bought a little furniture and was no longer living out of U-Haul boxes.

Ruby had graciously offered a room at her place ‘until you get established.’ Sam had declined for the sake of everyone’s clarity. He thanked his stars for that stroke of wisdom every time Luna chirped something like, “Mommy said we should always look pretty and act pretty and that I have to be extra easy on you, because you don’t know what you’re doing yet.”

Sam laughed; that last part wasn’t wrong and he had no difficulty imagining Ruby saying it. He also reminded himself not to say anything around Luna that he didn’t want repeated.

“So, really.” She popped the last bite between her tiny teeth. “When is he coming?”

“I don't know, Luna. Soon, I hope.” Sam grabbed his phone. “Say cheese.”

He hadn’t expected a reply right away and didn’t get one. Dean was likely in practice.

They watched an animated movie on his laptop in which Rapunzel was a badass with a frying pan. Then it was time for bed.

The mattress was for Sam. Luna’s room was the only inhabitable quarters in the place. He’d spent the entire day unpacking her furniture and arranging it like her room at his old place.

When she asked him to stay, he dragged the air mattress in and laid it on the floor beside her bed. It was better to be snuggled up near her than sleeping alone in that cavernous living room.

Luna’s reading was already leaps ahead of where she’d been at the last visit. So she read a chapter of Charlotte’s web to him.  
Sam never sang in front of anyone else, except for Dean, in the dark. He sang 500 miles in an atrocious Scottish accent, making up the words he didn’t know.  
Another picture of Luna cherubic and sleeping, and one of himself faking a smile.

Sam: We miss you.

Before he could send and lose sleep regretting it, he deleted and just wrote: Home Sweet Home


	51. Chapter 51

DECEMBER 10

Dean leaned against a tree in those woods on the far end of the field where a hundred years ago Sam had sucked him dry.

He had another puff and dropped the unfinished butt to the ground. He was stomping it out when a pair of white sneakers parked in front of his ratty black chucks.

Ruffled, white socks on slender golden ankles, a cheerleader skirt, obscenely protruding chest and Kevin’s grinning face under an elf hat and a blonde wig. “Hey.”

“You look great.” Dean wasn't kidding either; it was the first time he’d smiled since Sam left.

“Thanks,” Kevin chirped and twirled like he was born in the skirt. “You missed the pep rally.”

“That I did.” Dean leaned back and crossed the ankle with the ace bandage over the other.

“Are you really not going to play in the finals?”

Dean pointed to the fucked up foot and shrugged. “Out of commission.”

Kevin winced. “What happened anyway? Is it broken?”

“Nah. Just busted to shit.” Dean conveniently did not mention about jumping out of a third story window at Mildred’s to make absolutely certain the coach couldn’t somehow force him to play. “Done with football anyway.”

“How can you be done with football? You’re the best player this school has ever had.”

Dean flipped a fake platinum curl over Kevin’s shoulder. “Flattery will get you everywhere, princess.”

“It’s not flattery.” Kevin folded his arms under his bust. (water balloons or cantaloupes) “There’s no way that everyone else knows how good you are and you don’t.”

“Every guy on the team and half the school have been on my case about this. You think you’re going to have a different result?”

Kevin glanced at the school building and shrugged. “Honestly? I don’t really care. If you don’t want to play, don’t play.”

Dean waited for the catch.

When Kevin shrugged again his stuffed chest jiggled. (balloons) “Whatever makes you happy is what you should do.”

 

***

 

Sam didn’t recognize the number, but since the caller had tried four previous times, he excused himself from the table and stepped onto the back porch. “Hello?”

“You need to do something about Dean.”

“Jo?”

“Did you hear me?”

It’s hard not to hear shouting in your ear, it’s also difficult to listen. “You’ll be happy to know that Dean’s not really talking to me.”

“That doesn’t make me happy.”

Sam stepped onto the patio to put more space between himself and inquisitive ears. “What do you want?”

“He’s lost his mind. Maybe it’s the pressure with States,” Jo said. “I don’t know, but he quit the team and he won’t talk to me. But he’ll listen to you.”

“I doubt that.”

“Try. Sam. Something is very wrong with him.”

Sam plucked a leaf from Ruby’s parents’ lemon tree. Dean had been different since he came back. Sam had ignored it and somehow wound up banished. Jo was over estimating his power. “I’ll do what I can.”

He looked at the house. Hadn’t talked to Dean in a week. There was no reason to believe that he’d even answer a call.  
Sam tried a text: Hey

After ten silent minutes of examining the Salins’ trees, he shook his head and wiped a hand down his mouth. It was no place for a Dean-Done-Me-Wrong episode. He could break down in peace at home.

“Sorry about that.” Sam slid back into his seat. “It was my little sister.”

“How is JoAnna?” Ruby’s mother asked, slicing Luna's beef into tiny, equal-sized squares.

“Well,” he answered. It was probably true.

“Daddy,” Luna piped up, to his rescue. “Tell Gamps Christmas presents better than Hanukkah presents?”

Mr. Salins put down his glass. “I was explaining to Luna that you and your parents are attempting to buy her love, since you weren’t around for the first five years of her life.” He looked to Sam for agreement.

Ruby gave Sam a strained smile. She knew her father was insane and that it was impossible to respond to that statement. While Sam scrambled for an answer, his former father-in-law had a piece or roasted red potato and continued, “So, Sam. I been meaning to ask, how's the gayness working out for you?”

“Dad.”

“What’s gayness?” A pea dribbled from Luna’s mouth.

Ruby rolled her eyes at her father.

“What? He knows he's gay. It's not news to anyone at this table. Even Luna knows it, which I think was ill-advised, but what do I know?” Mr. Salins washed down his bite with white wine. “Hope you’re being careful out there. You know gay men are ten times more likely to contract STIs than the rest of the population, but that’s only because of all the unprotected --”

“Daddy, please.”

“What? That's statistical. I didn’t create the situation. You want to kill the messenger? Fine.”

“I want to change the subject.” Ruby emptied her glass and poured herself a fresh one.

“Fine,” Mr. Salins said. “Lulu tells us you've got a beau, Sam. Derrick. Dale. What was it, honey?”

“Daddy, seriously.”

“Dean,” Luna supplied.

“Is he the one?” Mr. Salins popped in another potato.

Ruby shook her head, incredulous. “You do not have to answer that. Daddy, you are being ridiculous.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” The older man shrugged. “If it had been up to me, this one would have been more thoroughly vetted before you walked down the aisle. It wasn't up to me and look what happened.”

Ruby threw up her hands. “Mom?”

“Am I being unfair here, Sam?” Mr. Salins asked.

“No, sir.” Sam looked at the plate of food he had yet to touch and likely, wouldn't be able to stomach.

“This isn't to hurt your feelings, son. I don't give a fig about your feelings. I’ll tell you like we tell Ru. No new men around Luna until you're absolutely sure.” Mr. Salins pointed his fork at Sam as punctuation. “If he's not the one - I'm talking forever and ever, I do - I don't care how nice he is and how many bedtime stories he reads. You keep him away from her.”

Sam nodded.

“I'm talking five years or more. A guy can't keep up a con for five years.”

“Not true, Avrim,” Mrs. Salins finally felt compelled to chip in. “Rebecca Horowitz was married to Danny for 23 years before he backed over her with his golf cart, so he could run off with that nurse. Do you remember that? Pulled forward and did it again, three times. After 23 years.”

“Mom. You are not helping,” Ruby said.

“I'm just saying. Goes to show,” Ruby’s mother finger fed Luna a piece of her meat. “You never know. How could you have known?” She gestured at Sam. “Look at him. Handsome and clean. Does he look like he wants a penis in his mouth?”

Ruby's face fell into her hands.

“No, he does not. I told Mindy Schumacher. You can never tell.”

“Five years.” Mr. Salins repeated. “If this Dean guy is worth his salt, he’ll still be around in five years. Then we'll talk about him meeting Luna.”

“He's already met Luna,” Sam said.

“Which was another mistake. But at least he's not around her, right?”

“He's in Kansas,” Sam choked out the words, as if compelled.

“Good. Keep it that way.”

“Daddy,” Ruby snapped. “It's not your business.”

“You tell me it's not my business?” Without bothering to stand, Mr. Salins put a hand on his hip. “My little girl marries a gay goy. The very same minute she starts to pull herself back together. What happens? He pops up again and with some unknown boyfriend... So, I’m supposed to like it? Well, I don’t. I’m sorry, Sam, you haven't exactly been golden to this family. You'll excuse me if I don't trust your judgment until I see proof. You want to bring this guy around here and prove me wrong? Fine. Otherwise, five years after you put the ring on your finger, we’ll talk. In the meantime. Keep him away from Luna. Now, eat. You’re food’s got to be cold.”

“Uncle Dean is Daddy's best friend and Daddy is nicer and better and happier and funnier when Uncle Dean is with him.” Luna had another spoonful of peas, seemingly oblivious to the adults eyes on her.

“He's not perfect, but who is?” Sam looked the old man in the eye. “He loves Luna. Adores her. And I adore him. He is, absolutely, without question, the one.”

Luna shone her smile up at Sam. He grinned back and squeezed her little hand.

“Eat your meat, baby,” Ruby ordered from across the table.

Her father harrumphed, regarding Luna with pursed lips. The moment he went to open them, his wife spoke up. “You’ve done enough, old man. Hush and eat.”

 

***

 

When Kevin entered the bathroom, their eyes met in the mirror, Dean sort of smiled and splashed another cold handful onto his face.  
As he moved to leave the room, the scrawny kid stood in his way. Dean tried to go right, then left. Each time, Kevin moved aside, squarely blocking Dean’s exit. Finally, Dean took a deep breath and stepped back. “You following me?”

Kevin shook his head, then shrugged, cute mouth curled in a playful smirk. “Maybe.”

He’d lost the wig and the jugs, but was still in the Gator’s female cheerleader’s outfit. As Dean’s eyes rose to his face again, Kevin leaned toward him, lifting onto his tiptoes. Instinctively, Dean arched away.

Kevin froze. “I’m sorry. I…”

“Nah. You’re good.”

Kevin turned small fingers combing through his thick black hair. “I'm such an idiot.”

“Don't.” Dean caught his arm.

“Garth Fitzgerald told me …” Kevin looked up at him with wide, dark fawn’s eyes.

Garth Fitzgerald was top on Dean’s list of people to kill.

Apart from murderous thoughts, there was the familiar, old gaping wound, recently reopened: lack of attention and affection with an undercurrent of fear blended with the constant ache of missing Sam.

Dean needed something fire-bright and good. Something hard and soft. Something exactly like what was being offered to him. “You like wearing that?”

Kevin smoothed his hands over the polyester and nodded.

“Fucking suits you.”

The kid’s smile twitched as he fingered the hem of the skirt. “Thanks.”

Dean’s face and chest burned. Kevin scratched his calf with the sole of his tennis shoe and a fresh wave of blood rushed from Dean’s brain to his crotch.

He wrapped a hand around that fragile neck and crushed the much-smaller boy through a stall door and back up against it. Dean smashed his lips over Kevin's gasping mouth, kissed until he tasted copper.

Kevin's small hands pushed against his chest. Tiny and perfect. Dean’s arm slipped around a waif-thin waist and lifted his featherweight. Kevin panted and locked his ankles at the small of Dean’s back. “Wow.”

Like Sam had said on that bridge overlooking the Mississippi and Indiana Rivers.

Dean’s heart slammed against his chest, ribs tightened around his lungs. He looked at the ceiling, willing the tears to get back.

“You okay?”

“M’fine.” Dean wiped his face on Kevin's shoulder.

The kid’s erection was barely a thumbs up pressed against Dean’s stomach. Dean stroked Kevin’s little balls and he wriggled until Dean dropped his legs.

“Let me.” He slipped to his knees, fumbling with Dean’s belt.

The last time Sam had looked up at him like this, they were in that theater, not-watching Jurassic World. Dean’s head lolled back. There was no fucking fighting the tears anymore. He leaked them onto a round face with eyes much-darker, far-narrower than Sam's. He took Kevin’s bird-boned wrist in hand as Kevin took his dick.

Then and there, thrusting his hips at this boy’s face, Dean made a wordless vow:

Never to call Sam.

To leave him alone.

Keep him safe.

Let him get his life back.

Keep this shit to strangers.

Be satisfied with nameless, faceless bathroom fucks

Dean could get lost in this. He could make it be enough, if he sank himself in the moment completely. Let Kevin make him forget about Sam. “Can I fuck you?”

The kid’s eyes widened. He stood and wiped his mouth. “Here?”

“It's okay if--”

“Okay.”

“You sure? I just...” _need you to make me forget._

“I'm sure.” Kevin turned and faced the stall door, bracing with his hands beside his head.

Dean knelt and pulled off the kid’s tighty whities. He wiped the new wave of tears on Kevin’s skirt, held his little cheeks apart to spit on his hole and work a thumb inside.

Kevin whimpered.

“Shh.” Dean stroked with his left hand. “God, you're tight.”

“You like it?”

“Hell, yeah.”

When the cheerleader moaned softly, rocking back on three fingers, Dean stood and rolled on a condom. He lined himself up, gripped his dick and slowly entered Kevin’s heat. With each inch he drove in, the air spurted from Kevin’s mouth. “Ah, ah, ah.”

"Relax." Dean pressed a hand into the small of his back to make him lean forward until the backs of Dean's legs hit the commode.

Kevin breathed. “It kind of...”

“You want me to stop?" Dean gripped the kid’s hips to steady and still himself.

“No.”

“Kevin.”

“No.” He gripped Dean’s wrist. “I want it.”

Dean wrapped an arm around Kevin's waist, heat coursing up the center of his chest. He congratulated himself for being in the here and now, then, his mind slipped to that bench in Chicago where he’d made a different vow:

He was never supposed to touch another body like this.

But he and Sam were over. They had to be. Maybe Crowley would even see this and believe Dean was over Sam.

“Fuck.” He dropped his forehead onto the back of Kevin’s neck.

The bathroom door squeaked open. Both boys froze as hard soles clicked across the floor. He pressed his lips to Kevin's ear and mouthed the word, "up"

He caught one, then the other of Kevin's ankles in his hands. The new position smashed Kevin against the door and drove Dean’s dick all the way into him. Kevin’s gasp was quiet, but still echoed off the tile. Dean shut his eyes, shuddered and shot his load.

Despite valiant efforts, he failed to keep still and Kevin let out a soft whine.

"Who's in here?"

Dean didn’t recognize the adult voice and he'd not fully regulated his breath.

Kevin was still biting his bloody lip. No doubt, in all kinds of pain. If he tried to say something, he was going to squeak.

“It's Dean Miller.”

“Why aren't you in class?”

“Had to crap. Sir.”

Kevin started to shake. Concerned he was hurting him worse, Dean leaned forward to check his face. Kevin was holding back laughter.

“Yeah, well. Hurry up and get back.” The teacher pissed and left without washing his hands.

“Shit.” Dean released Kevin's feet, retrieved the condom, and flushed it down the can.

One of Kevin’s hands covered his giggling mouth, the other prodded his poor hole.

“You okay?”

Smiling, he nodded. “I've never done that. It was... kind of intense.”

“Wait. You never...”

Kevin shook his head and brought his small hand, the clean one, to Dean’s face. “It was amazing. You are.”

Funny. ‘Amazing’ was the last word Dean would have chosen to describe himself.


	52. Chapter 52

DECEMBER 14

  
An afternoon meditation of numbers and staccato strings. Then, Sam walked his tiny lot, lost in thought.

The previous homeowner had a prodigious green thumb. Miniature espaliered lemon, orange and avocado trees hugged the south and west walls of the house. In the center of the lot, there was just enough space for a swing set. If Sam positioned it right, he might even be able to squeeze in a few rows of tomatoes. His neighbor had told them they'd grow all year.

Sam was hardy. He could survive the wait. It wouldn't be pleasant, but he would muddle through, finding beauty where he could.  
Biding his time. Until Dean was ready.

 

***

 

All Dean could do was shake his head as he read through the file. Depending on whose account you chose to believe, this little idiot, Matt Pike, had come out to/asked out/tried to kiss his so-called best friend. That poor decision making had resulted in a sound ass-whipping and a subsequent suicide attempt.

The world is flowing over with fucked up situations. That was one thing Dean already knew.

He shoved the papers from in front of him and shrugged at the old man behind the desk. “So, what am I supposed to do?”

“Well, for one thing, wipe that look off your face,” the guy groused. “You look like you don’t give a shit. Or like you think he deserved it.”

Based on the vinyl plaque on the outside of his crappy office, Robert Singer was a lowly social worker. Garth had made him out to be some queer superhero and together, they were dragging Dean into social justice work, like fucking Wonder Woman.

But there were other things Singer might know about, as well. This grumpy, old geezer was the centerpiece of Garth’s plan. It was those ‘other things’ that had drawn Dean there in the first place. He was starting out with the queer stuff, kind of like you might start by telling the doctor about your itchy scalp before mentioning that it stings when you take a leak.

Dean scrutinized one of Singer’s many framed certificates and shrugged. “I mean, you’re the expert. I’m just a kid.”

“You’re fucking cool, Dean.” Garth picked up the file with both hands, like it was a holy relic. “For Matt to know that someone like you is an ally...”

“It would matter.” Singer nodded. “And it would go toward your community service credits.”

“I don’t give a shit about that.” It’s hard to be concerned with your resume with a job offer from the devil.

Time was Dean’s single saving grace. There was almost a year until his 18th birthday. Time to figure a way out. Maybe he could even do enough good to override whatever claim Crowley had to him. Then he could go be with his brother/lover.

Of course, there was always the sin aspect of knowingly engaging in incest, but Dean was trying. That had to count for something.

Then again, maybe letting go of Sam was a necessary sacrifice to keep from sullying him, too. Dean had done enough shitty shit that imagining himself working for the King of Hell wasn’t that far of a stretch. The thought of Sam walking around soulless or doing weird shit with other people’s blood was more than Dean could take. He would die before he let that happen.

“Well, I think you could do some good,” Singer said.

The grizzled old man looked about as comfortable in his monkey suit as Dean felt in that office.  
Behind the wheel of a rusty old pick up or on top of a junk heap like Sanford and son, that’s where Singer belonged, not jockeying this desk, wrangling papers.

“Fine. What do I got to do?”

“You listen. That’s pretty much it.” Garth placed the file back on the desk. “I mean, you’ll go through the training. It’s, like, four hours on how to not be an asshole.”

Dean pursed his lips, unsure whether that was a personal dig.

“And then, you just let them speak their peace. Most of these kids don’t have anyone to talk to.”

“As you can see, Garth is very dedicated to the cause.” Singer stacked the Manila folder with the others on his desk. “Do me a favor, son, go grab Dean one of them pamphlets from down the hall.”

Garth leapt to his feet like a well-trained puppy.

A wrought iron cross hung on the wall beside Singer’s college diploma, as good a segue as any. “What’s with that?”

Singer didn’t turn around to see what Dean meant. “Some habits die hard. I was a priest in a former life.”

Oh no. Not one of these freaks.

“Then, I realized I was only there on a false pretense, so I split.” The old man dug a silver canteen from the bottom drawer of his desk and added, “Besides, celibacy is a load of crap.”

“You gay?”

“That I am, son.” Singer took a swig and hissed. “Gay as a goose. How ‘bout yourself?”

“Nope.”

Singer’s brow went up. “Your buddy sure seems convinced.”

“I’m not gay. I’m pan... whatever it is. Not real picky.”

The old man smiled and had another drink. “Yeah. I can buy that.”

“My mom used to say I’d fuck anything that let me.”

“Yeah?” Singer laughed. “Mine used to say I’d go blind if I washed my own wiener too long.”

Dean leaned forward with his elbow on the desk. “Look, I got to ask you something. And I need you to be straight with me... You know what I mean.” He braced for the worst, with no idea what that would be. “What do you know about demon possession?”

Singer coughed and spewed whatever was in that canteen clear across the table. “That... is pretty far off the reservation. Why on earth are you asking about that?”

Dean wiped spit-diluted liquor from his face, then from his fingers. “Garth said you might have some information.”

“Well, I’ve seen The Exorcist, like everybody else, but that’s it.”

 

***

 

Luna sat on the lacquered, blond hardwood floor pulling on her ballet shoes. Sam held onto the Dora bag that held her plain clothes and surveyed the row of middle-aged mothers lined up on a bench like plump hens on a fence. They all stared at back him, clucking momentarily halted.

“Luna, introduce us to your new bodyguard,” this popular joke came from a no-doubt, once beautiful woman with leathery, orange-ish skin.

“It's my daddy, silly.” Luna skipped off to join her class, pink tutu bouncing all the way while the dance instructor cued up Tchaikovsky.

“Jen.” Leather-mom offered limp fingers attached to a wiry, well-muscled arm.

Sam shook the skeletal hand and slipped into the space that had parted for him like the Red Sea.

“So, you're Ruby's...”

“Ex.”

Jen attempted some expression, but the muscles in her face barely moved. “Can’t believe she didn't mention you.”

“We hadn't spoken in some time.” That’s more than enough information for the ballet moms.

“And you live around here?”

“Just moved,” Sam answered. “To be near to Luna.”

The entire bench erupted in heart-melted coos. Like a conductor, Jen waved them all quiet. “Was it amicable, the divorce?”

“Um... I think so. Yeah.” Sam nodded. Luna did a split and he clapped like mad. “No, we’re... I think we're friends.”

“Oh, that's nice,” Jen said. “I'm still waiting for my ex husband’s brakes to go out.”

Sam did his best impression of a comfortable a person engaged in a comical conversation.

“So, are you seeing anyone?” Jen jostled slightly as the woman on her other side elbowed her. “What? You wish you'd asked.”

“Um, I, uh...Yeah. I've ... in Kansas.”

That earned even more awwws. Kansas seemed to have that effect on people not from Kansas. Frank Baum to blame.

“Long distance?” Jen shook her head with artificial sympathy. “Mmm. That's hard. If you ever need to talk about it.” That earned another elbow.

“What? I’m just saying.” She uncrossed and switched her thin legs, a la Sharon Stone. “So what do you do, Ruby’s ex?”

“Sam.” He scratched his ear. “I'm an accountant.”

“That can be pretty good money.”

Another nudge, this time so strong that Jen bumped into Sam.

“It can,” she said. “With a firm or what?”

“Actually I’m thinking of going freelance,” Sam said for the first time out loud. It was as good a plan as hustling for a job. “We'll see. I'll get settled and see what makes sense.”

“Why don't you give me your card?”

When Sam pulled out his wallet, every woman on the bench held out her hand for one. “Welcome to Orlando, Sam.”

He huffed. “Thanks.”

 

***

 

Two minutes. That was the length of time Dean had requested for Garth to head Singer off at the bathroom and distract the old man with any asinine nonsense he could come up with. If there was one thing Garth could do, it was talk, at length, about nothing.

Dean rummaged through every drawer, leaving the papers and pens in exactly the same state of disarray as he’d found them. He checked the bookshelves, leafed through books and even wriggled his fingers in the man’s coat pockets. The closest he came to something useful was a thin copy of the New Testament between books on how to come out to your parents. Reading the Bible wasn’t going to cut it anymore than saying grace was going to work as demon repellent.

Dean’s bullshit meter had gone haywire when Singer said he didn’t know anything about demons. The question was just how to get at whatever the old man knew.

 

***

 

Sam set up his easel in the back yard. In the snapshot Dean was laughing with Luna. It was taken on their first visit, half a year prior. A chill passed through him, despite the late morning swelter.

Oil is unforgiving, but expressive in a way few other mediums can replicate. He picked up his pallet and cut in a portion of azure and cream. While the top half of the canvas dried mid-summer blue, Sam practiced mixing just the right mossy green for Dean’s eyes.

An hour later, he began to slather the bottom half of the background with the color he’d concocted. It would be even less fun trying to get his own eyes. It had been too long since he’d worked with oil. Too long since he’d painted at all and never enjoyed self-portraits.

He put down his pallet, rested his brush, and unpinned the photo. Sighing like the full-on queen he was becoming, he smoothed his hand over it. Every now and again, Sam would get a texted message: “Hey!” “Enjoying the sun?” or instructing him to “Kiss the munchkin.”  
But when Sam wrote back, the conversation faltered. If Sam tried to call, he’d receive a generic text: “I’m busy, can I call you back?”  
But never the returned call.

 

***

 

This kid from the file, Matt Pike’s face was all busted to fuck. Somewhere beneath the bruised and swollen flesh, though, were pretty decent looks that would make a reappearance again someday. One thing was sure, by the time that happened, he’d be careful who the hell he talked to about what.

Garth offered him a candy cane. The kid accepted and squinted his purpled eyes like he wasn’t sure what it was.

“Hey, Matt,” Dean said.

The eyes widened (to the extent they could), as if the holy saint Brad Pitt had intoned his name and not some random kid from another school who Matt didn’t know from Adam Corrola.

Dean hadn’t even thought about that. When he was doing Singer’s hero training, all he could think about was how this might be good for his immortal soul. It hadn’t occurred to him that some 13 year old kid might spring a boner at the sight of him. It was flattering and way off topic.

Maybe not that far off topic.

“Ok if we...” Dean took the bean bag while Garth got cozy on the rug.

Kid had a pretty sweet set up: his own TV and game console, 3D model solar system, a big ass terrarium crawling with bugs, and a dad who hadn’t said a word to him since he came flailing out of the closet like a jackass.

“What is it with dads?” Dean asked, appropo of his random train of thought.

“I think it’s that they have these ideas of who they expect us to be. And if you’re not big and tough and into tits, it’s not...” Matt’s eyes trailed toward the window.

Dean pointed to the candy cane. “You want me to open that or something?”

He shook his head and kept looking at nothing.

Garth started the script. “Matt. We’re here with --”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Your mom reached out to us in case you want to --”

“Are you gay?” the kid asked point blank.

“Well, I...”

Dean cleared his throat and nodded. “Yeah.”

“Do you... have a boyfriend?”

Dean couldn't help smirking at the bold little bastard. “Why? You asking?”

Even behind all the purple and blue, the kid’s face lit up crimson.

“I will tell you this, the last guy I... went out with was a little geek like you. Well, he’s huge, but still a fucking geek. And his dad’s an asshole, too. Probably way worse than yours.”

“Dean.” Garth’s scolded with his beady eyes.

“What?”

Right. Script.

“Just remember, you're not alone and it---”

“I know. It gets better,” Matt said. “If I hear that again, I'm going to throw up.”

“I think it’s true, though. My... The guy I was telling you about, if he was here, I think he would tell you, once you hit 18, you get out, goto college and things start to fall into place.”

Matt’s eyes were devoted to Dean’s face like he was the way, truth and light.

“And the fact that you know who you are now and you're already being honest with yourself and your family,” Script be damned. “I’m not going to lie to you. It’s not going to be easy, but it will be better than lying and it will help you avoid some unnecessary pitfalls. And to really find yourself and your place and eventually, that person of your dreams.”

“You promise?”

“Absolutely.”

Judging by the look on Garth’s face, that wasn’t too bad. Anyway, Dean’s heart beat triple time, almost like he had just run a touchdown.

“Tell me more about your guy? Like, what kind of guys you like.”

“We’re not here about me,” Dean said. “We’re here about you.”

 

***

 

Sam mowed his grass to one inch perfection, like some schmuck in a 1950’s television show. He waved at his next door neighbor as she pulled her Saab out of the garage and headed off to work. He had made himself a pitcher of lemonade for when the job was done.

Glamorous, no. But it was okay.

 

***

 

Picking a lock is delicate business, requiring concentration and patience, and is usually executed with some level of privacy. So when a hand landed on Dean’s back, he scowled up from his work to find Garth’s face all pinched with worry.

“You know what, you got the guy’s address. You've done enough. Go home.”

“No way.”

“This is completely illegal. You do know that?”

Garth nodded. “Even if Singer catches us, he’s not going to call the cops.”

“He might. He might not. Either way, it’s not your fight.”

“I told you, I got your back.” Garth clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Just do it.”

If there was an alarm, it was silent. Dean waited a few seconds for anything to happen. Dogs. Sirens. When nothing did, he took a step.

Garth still had a fistful of his shirt. Dean eyeballed him and he let go. “Sorry.”

“Light.”

Garth smacked the flashlight a few times before it kicked into gear, casting a beam over the clutter of dusty books and creepy, ancient-looking shit that would make any museum proud and any middle schooler piss their pants.

“Where the fuck do we start?”

Garth shrugged and slid a volume from the shelf into Dean’s hand. A strange symbol took up most of the front cover. On the back, a woman was burning at the stake. Good a start as any.

Dean flipped it open and coughed out dust. “Any of this shit in English?”

“I got Google translate on my phone.”

“Awesome. What the hell language is this?”


	53. Chapter 53

DECEMBER 18

Dean lay on his back, holding his phone upright on his chest so that he could stare at Sam and Luna crossing their eyes and sticking out their tongues at him. He shook his head, dropped the screen face down and the room was cast in shadowless darkness again.

The next time he lifted it, he dialed Sam’s number. Not speed dialed, but old school, number by number. 

He tapped SEND and END in the same breath. 

Sam called back three times before Dean answered, “Must have butt-dialed you. Sorry.”

“No. Don't be.” his voice was strained, maybe with an effort not to sound excited. Maybe it was something else. “I'm glad you did ... It's been a while. You must be crazy busy.”

“Yeah, you know how it is.”

Sam huffed, the way he does when he’s trying not be a bitch.

“What's that in the background?” Dean asked, having already identified it as music and conversation. 

In his mind, Sam was in a nightclub with his face to the wall, unaware as every guy at the bar ogled his ass.

“Nothing. Just ... at a restaurant.” 

“Getting out. That's cool. Making friends and what not.” The desire to be there, staring down potential suitors sent a flare through Dean’s chest.

“It's just Ruby.” 

Dean hadn’t pictured her and somehow, the flame kicked up a notch. He bit his lip to keep from cussing. “Oh.”

“She wanted to go to this happy hour, but she didn't want to go alone. So I--”

“Well, don't let me keep you from being happy.”

“Dean.”

“I got to go anyway.”

“Dean.”

“See ya.” He went back to staring at the phone, like a mesmerized moron.

He muted the ringtone when Sam called back. Then, he listened to the message three times in a row.

“Hey... Call me back when you get this, okay? It was good to hear your voice. I... I've been going a little crazy and I'd like to hear from you more often, if you can swing it. I understand you got a lot going on. Just a few minutes, you know. It's never too late. To call, I mean. So, don't worry about that. My phone’s always on and Luna's all the way down the hall, if she’s at the house. You won't wake her … And she'd love to hear from you, too, if daytime is better. So, yeah. Anytime. Okay ... I love you.”

Dean was about to tap PLAY a fourth time when a tear threatened to breach the levee. He slid the phone under his pillow and squeezed his eyes shut.

 

***

Sam took a few deep breaths and returned to the table.

“Who was that?” Ruby clasped a hand over her mouth. "Nosy." Her big brown eyes were wide - two clicks past tipsy, one away from trashed. “So, are you getting laid?”

Sam’s chuckle conveyed half of his unease.

Ruby dropped her chin. “I'm sorry.”

“No. It's okay. I know you.” 

It was difficult for Ruby to contain her innermost thoughts when she was sober. She didn’t have a chance when she was drunk.

“I know you do.”

Sam fled her warmth by poring over the crowd of strangers who’d drunken enough to gather on the parquet floor in pairs or trios, dancing badly without remorse.

“I don’t think I told you, I got a call from Luna’s teacher.” The music was loud, but Ruby leaned closer than necessary when she talked. 

Sam tried to listen and to ignore the hand on his knee.

“She was making the classroom Ken dolls kiss each other and announcing that they don't want to marry Barbie.”

Speechless, Sam made a sound that was equal parts guilt and amusement. 

“That's why we pay the big bucks for a progressive school, so I can get a call at work that I'm promoting lifestyle choices that may be adversely affecting Luna's peers.”

“I met Ms. Rosen,” Sam said. “She seemed --”

“She’s not the problem. It wasn't her. I know exactly who it was. All it takes is one small-minded and big-mouthed person.”

“Do I need to…” No part of Sam relished the idea of doing anything. “Maybe if I explain …”

“We don't have to explain.” Ruby slammed her glass down, louder than she would have if her head had been clear. “Would we have to explain if a Chinese Ken wanted to marry a French Barbie? Do they even have Chinese Ken? I don’t know, but the point is some people might freak out about it, but you know what? Fuck them. I was just telling you so you'd know.”

Sam nodded. He’d not heard the last of this.

“Also, I hope it's okay with you that I asked your mom to send down a copy of the wedding book. For Luna. I thought she should have that and I burned my copy, so...”

“Yeah. Of course.” Sam’s throat was tight. Clearing it with a small cough didn’t work. Draining his club soda helped until Ruby put her hand on his face. 

“I'm so glad you're here. She was starting to ask and ... there's no substitute for a good daddy.”

Sam smiled, popping a few peanuts between his lips to shatter the intimacy.

“Really. She loves you to death.”

“I love her, too.”

“And Dean,” Ruby said. “Talks about him constantly. And about the two of you.”

Ruby laughed as Sam damn near choked on peanut dust. 

“What I have with Dean…is extremely delicate and I'd appreciate if you wouldn't mention it to my parents. Or anyone else.” 

She pantomimed zipping her lips in a way that instilled no confidence.

“And we’re not… He’s…” Sam scratched the back of his neck and angled for a subject change. “How about you? You seeing anyone?”

Ruby shrugged. “Fucking this guy from work. Great dancer. Tiny dick.” She covered her mouth and laughed. “I just mean, he's not any good... Haven't had anything good in... “ Her eyes opened wide enough to indicate that she was desperate to stop talking and unable to do so. “I need to pee.”

Sam nodded and expressly didn’t watch her cross the room. His telephone buzzed and he pulled it from his jacket pocket, hoping for a callback from Dean. What he received instead was a two-word text message.

DEAN: Brothers, okay?

 

***

 

When Dean opened the door and stepped inside, it was like entering a still, dark sanctuary after hours. The fridge was turned off, so he’d brought his own beer. Without bothering with the lights, he wandered down the hallway by memory.

There was a flicker of light beneath Sam’s bedroom door. He opened it to find Cas/Angela in the center of the bed like the big bad wolf with a bowl of popcorn resting on her belly.

“Jody?”

She shook her head. “Just me.”

Dean held his ground by the door. “Don’t you have your own place?” 

“Don't you?”

“Sam asked me to keep an eye on things. Pretty sure he asked you not to touch anything.”

Angela rolled her eyes. “You haven't washed the sheets since he left.”

“Haven’t gotten around to it.” Dean sighed and put his six-pack on Sam's bedside table. 

Angela was in Dean’s space - what must have been her space, back when she was still Sam’s and still Castiel. Dean sat on Sam’s side, picked up his pillow and took a whiff, letting the scent of Sam’s sweat and shampoo and cologne fill him. 

If Angela had an opinion about that, she kept it to herself. As Dean kicked off his shoes and stretched his legs out on the bed she looked over at him with something like tenderness.

“You try to kiss me, I swear to god, I’ll kick your ass.”

“You really are fond of yourself, aren’t you?”

Dean sucked his teeth and offered her the first beer. 

Angie accepted and knocked her bottle against Dean’s. “Why aren’t you somewhere, fucking some cheerleader?”

Stupid questions don’t warrant a response. “Why are you here?”

“Same as you. Visiting Sammy’s ghost.”

“That’s not why I'm here.”

“Uh-huh.” Angie nodded and had another dainty sip. She really had the chick thing down. “I’ve missed him for years. It’s a way of life for me.” 

"Not my fault, man. You guys were fucked before I ever came along."

"Because I was a bitch.”

"You were fucking insane,” Dean corrected.

“I was only meeting Sam halfway, giving him what he thought he deserved. If I had just been sweet to him, I never would have stood a chance.” Angela stared at the screen. “Look at the two of us. You and me. Sammy likes broken toys. Broken boys who know hurt and know how to make him hurt. I saw it on him the first day I met him. Sam wants to suffer. If you don’t make him suffer, he won’t be happy. 

“That’s a fucked up thing to say.”

“Only because it’s true. Have you seen the guy? You think he had to just take the shit I dished on him? Two to Tango, Dean. He thinks he deserves to be punished.” She burped. "I always thought we’d end in a murder suicide." 

“You still on all kinds of meds, aren’t you?” Dean commandeered the beer. Last thing he needed was for this psycho to start coding.

“Fuck you.”

Dean huffed. “How's your snatch?”

“Better. Why?”

“I don't know. I look at you and that's what I think about.”

She smiled.

“Not like that.”

Angie cocked her head and tossed her black hair from her shoulder like she was Gal Gadot or something. “Can you think about a pussy without it being like that?”

“Yours? Absolutely.”

”I'm flattered anyway.”

“Suit yourself.” Dean sat his bottle on the table. “What are we watching?”

“Crying Game.”

“Funny.”

“Better idea?”

Dean helped himself to popcorn.

“Have you talked with Sam?”

“Not really.” Dean tried to clear some of the resentment from his tone. “He’s got his family. He’s fine.”

”You’re the one who sent him down there, genius. He only went because he didn’t want you to think he was less of a man or some stupid shit.”

“I sent him because, as you know, my mother’s fucking father threatened to kill him.”

“Now you’re just being dramatic,” Angie spoke around a mouthful of popcorn. “Crowley did not threaten to kill Sam. He put him in a collar, which looked fucking hot, by the way. And it was merely a suggestion.”

“And you’re just fine with all this?”

“What can I say? Playing with demons is fun.”

Dean scoffed. “Where’s my mother now?”

“Your mother?” Angie muted the TV, as if they’d been paying attention in the first place.” When you say your mother…”

“Jody. Where is she?”

“How the hell do I know?”

“Can't you sense her or call her or something?

Angie shrugged. “She’ll come when she wants me.”

Dean twisted open a second bottle. He’d only come to the apartment to get good and drunk and pass out on Sam’s pillow. He emptied another couple of beers before his mind and lips got loose enough to ask the question that had been burning a hole in his brain. “What do you think is going to happen?” 

“Everything’ll be fine. Or it won’t.”

Dean nodded and had more popcorn.

“She wouldn’t want me to tell you this, but you know your old pal, Marc?”

Dean froze and glued his eyes to the screen. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

In his peripheral vision, Angela cocked her head, in something like pity. “Your first time. The huge biceps. The ruffly socks.”

Dean chewed the hell out of his cheeks. Garth knowing every little detail about his past was annoying, but if he knew this shit, he didn’t bring it up. Castiel/Angela knowing was a level of compromised he couldn’t stomach, even now that they’d reached something like a truce.

“She knew… knew he was like that from the beginning. Could tell by the way he looked at you.”

Dean shook his head. Couldn’t listen to this. Didn’t have to-

“She let him. Let him have you, to protect you.”

Dean’s nostrils flared, heart slammed against his chest and yet, he couldn’t run from the room, no matter how his brain demanded it. He could only lay there and take it. Same as when he was a kid.

“They were after your blood, see? Not all of it, but any of it was more than your mother wanted to give. And you believed you were dirty after that. That’s what makes the blood impure: your perception. Your shame made it unusable. The original contract was null after Marc fucked you. That’s why Crowley has no use for it now.” 

Dean could have punched that tranny in his stupid mouth and been done with it. As soon as he could move again, that’s what he would do.

But then Angela nudged his leg with her knee and asked, “You want to know the deal with your mother?”


	54. Chapter 54

DECEMBER 20

A blast of heat surged up at Sam’s face and he leapt back from the engine, fanning away smoke. 

“Daddy.” Luna’s head poked out of the back driver’s side window. She was out of her seat.

“You stay in the car.”

Traffic whizzed by. Horns honked. A car charged lanes, passing too close to where they were broken down on the side of the road.

Once the smoke cleared enough to see the engine, it only took a moment for Sam to asses that the repair would require tools and expertise beyond his own, even with the years of working on Baby with his father. This was a foreign, modern, electric motor and there was nothing he could do but massage his mouth to keep from cursing.

He was on his way to get his phone and call for roadside assistance when a Range Rover pulled over, crunching over the gravel as it backed up. A guy with a crew cut and a boyish half grin hopped out and ambled over. His sleeveless shirt revealed an Army tattoo and well-muscled arms. Short legs, cute walk. 

“Hey. What you got?”

“Uh. Looks like the carburetor.” Sam said, trying to overlook the way the guy was looking him over.

The guy took a peek under the hood. “Sure does. I got a few things in the truck, but that ain't going to cut it.”

So, Sam placed the call while the guy stood by the car window, laughing with Luna. At some point during the interminable conversation, the guy held up a Batman action figure Luna had gotten from Dean. 

Sam wiped his hand over his mouth and hurried over to intercept his daughter and this complete stranger. “Listen, thanks for stopping.”

“You’re in the south now. That’s what we do.”

“How'd you…”

“Tags.” The guy nodded toward the front of the car, still grinning like he and Sam had secrets.

“Yeah, well, people are pretty nice in Missouri too.”

“I don’t doubt it.” The guy offered his hand. “Hey, Sam Winchester. I’m Cole.”

“And I see you’ve met Luna.” And God alone knew what else she had told him besides Sam’s name.

“She’s a trip. So, what’d you find out, Sam?”

“Minimum of two hours.” And the alternatives were to interrupt Ruby at work or call a cab.

“Where you headed?”

“Oh no, I couldn’t…”

“I haven’t offered yet.” Cole smiled. “You want to wait until I do that before you decline?”

“Daddy, I have to pee.”

 

***

 

While Mary Winchester strung up garland, a witch’s brew of longing and confusion stirred in Dean. He’d suffered plenty, but never knew this kind of inner turmoil was possible before he met these people.  
Fucking Winchesters.

It wasn't quite true that his life was easier before, but at least he knew exactly who the fuck he was: a trouble-making street urchin, from a single parent home, with only one chance in fuck to make something of himself. Then he was Spawn of Satan or Rosemary’s Baby or some whacked out shit, but even that made more sense than this.

Dean studied every detail about the way she moved: the wavy wheat of her hair, the stretch of her slim arm, the proud length of her back, roundness of her thigh. Every inch of her, as if by learning her, he could undo the distance between them. How could they be so far when his body had most likely been formed in hers?  
Probably  
Maybe  
And with everything he’d learned from Angela, there was still a shadowy doubt that kept him from asking outright, like a spindly-legged bird in a children’s book.

Are you my mother?

“Hey. Glad you decided to stop by,” she said. “You know, I'm fine with it if you're more comfortable at Mrs. Baker’s, but we do like to see you from time to time. Don't be such a stranger, okay?” She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Everything alright?” 

Dean's voice caught in his throat. Tears that had been trapped behind his eyes for months - or longer - fell in torrents. Mary Winchester rushed from her ladder to his side, placed a warm hand on his cheek, the other on his back. “Dean?”

Would she have even named him that? Or called him something else entirely? Something biblical, like Samuel? A derivative of her name, like Jo’s was of John? Would she have sung him to sleep? Kissed his scraped knees?  
Nobody had ever done that.

Dean barely allowed her to touch him before he shoved away and fled the house, overturning a basket of ornaments.

 

***

Sam opened his wallet as they pulled up in front of his house. “I can’t possibly thank you enough.”

“You have already thanked me enough, Sam.” Cole’s glance flicked over the wad of cash in his passenger's hand. “I’m sure you know I’m not taking that.”

“I’ve already been a hideous example to my daughter.”

“Yeah, but you got her to the party on time.”

“How am I supposed to tell her not to accept rides from strangers?”

“Sometimes the kindness of a stranger is exactly what we need.”

The layers of suggestion in Cole’s voice pricked at Sam’s skin and he focused all of his attention on putting his cash away. “I normally wouldn’t have…”

“You’ve said that about six times now. I get that you don’t usually do this.”

“We were just in a rush and --”

“I know. I love it when I get lucky like that. Or in any way.” Cole smirked as if he’d orchestrated the breakdown of Sam’s usually-so-dependable Toyota. “Listen, I don’t want your money, but I will accept a cup of coffee and a tour of your gorgeous home.”

“I don’t have coffee.”

“You don't drink coffee?” Cole asked, as if Sam was putting him on and making excuses to keep him out of the house.

“I don't drink coffee or alcohol, or soda for that matter,” Sam explained. “It’s kind of like an allergy.”

“Hm. Well, what you got?”

“Water,” Sam said. “And a boatload of tea.”

“Sold.”

While the water boiled, Sam pretended not to notice Cole examining the place, knocking on walls and peeking in closets, as if he was planning to make an offer.

“What exactly do you do, Cole?”

 

“All kinds of things.” He winked over his shoulder. “By trade, I am a licensed general contractor.”

 

Sam’s eyebrow shot up. Now that was kismet.

 

“And you're a new homeowner. See? I had a feeling we'd be good together.” Cole scratched his belly, legs wide as a cowboy. “Alright, I got a deal for you. You owe me, right?”

Sam narrowed his eyes regretting anything he might have said that had led to this moment. 

“I’m not going to take your money, but I will let you cook for me.”

“How’d you know I cook?”

“I didn’t know they made so many different kinds of pans.”

Sam laughed up at the assortment of utensils he’d arranged over the stove. He handed Cole his tea on a saucer. “Fair enough.”

As he reached for it, Cole conspicuously let his finger trail over Sam’s. Sam, in an equally obvious display, let go of the cup and watched it slip to the floor and shatter. 

Cole leapt back to avoid being scalded. 

“I’m sorry,” Sam said without conviction.

“No, I’m sorry.”

“No. Really. I’m --” Sam sighed, running his hands through his hair as if he was staring at a sink hole instead of a bit of porcelain. “I didn’t mean to give you the impression--”

“Sam, I already know you’re interested. I can see it in the way you look at me.”

“I’m not available.”

“So, you’re seeing someone?”

“I, uh….. we’re…he’s in Kansas and … right now, we”

“It’s clearly complicated.” Cole nodded as he stooped to collect the largest shards. “I’ve done complicated, Sam. It’s a drag. I promise you; I am a remarkably simple guy.” He dropped the pieces into the trashcan under the sink. “And I assume Kansas ain't gonna mind if you make me dinner. And maybe I just keep you warm some of the time. That sound good to you?”

 

DECEMBER 22

Dean lay in the dark in Mildred's guest bedroom in his boxers and a t-shirt, listening. He'd take the fact to his grave, but Sam's lecture was the best thing that had happened to him in weeks. The familiar tone and cadence of that voice from the speaker phone lulled him, not to sleep, but to a state of peace he hadn't experienced in too long.

“I figured this was some kind of phase or a rebellion, not…I thought that was part of the reason you wanted --”

“I'm not like your fucking father. I don’t put games ahead of people.”

“You mean our--”

“No. “Fuck him. Fuck football. I don't want anything else to do with it.”

“You know, not playing because of him is as bad as playing because of him.”

Dean rolled onto his stomach and placed the phone on the pillow beside his head. “Look, I’m not going to fucking college, and I’m not going to play in the NFL.”

“You could.”

“Yeah, but I’m not.” Dean closed his eyes and folded his arm under his pillow, closing his hand around his blade. “I'm done with that.”

 

***

 

Sam held his breath, hoping Dean would say he’d quit so they could be together. That he was choosing Sam over football. 

But he didn’t say much of anything. Probably Sam was getting on his nerves.

He stopped nagging, swatted a mosquito and had another drink of carbonated water. The moon had settled, fat and round, over the crest of the houses behind his own. His yard lay out peaceful in the pallid light. The night air enveloped him, muggy, but not oppressive. There was only one thing missing. “I’m not going to argue with you about it. It's your life. Your choice.”

“Yeah.” 

“I guess you’re keeping busy in other ways, then.” He could ask Dean to describe the room he was in and what he was doing, but they hadn’t had a real conversation since the ‘brothers’ thing.  
Dean had remained silent or hostile for most of this one. Sam kept the questions to himself to preserve the tenuous connection for as long as it would last. Anything Dean wanted to give would be good enough.

“So, what do brothers talk about, do you think?”

“Chicks and stuff, I guess.”

Sam scoffed. “Well, I don’t have much to report on that front.”

“And guys. Same thing.”

After a moment of silence, Sam tossed in all of his chips. “I met a guy.”

“Yeah?”

“Car broke down. He came to help --”

“And you fucked him as payment? That sounds like a porno, Sam.” Dean sounded almost amused. 

Of course he did. This was Dean he was talking to.

“I did not…” Sam closed his eyes. Why had he even thought it was a good idea to go down this road? “He’s just been fairly relentless in showing his interest.”

“Is he hot?”

Where was the indignation? The jealousy? Sam could admit to himself that he had been vying for some indication that Dean didn’t want him with other people. Oh, right. They were brothers. Brothers don’t get jealous of each others’ love lives.

“Nice looking, I guess.” 

“Got a name?”

“Cole.” A chill went through him at even pretending there was something there, when Sam just wanted the guy to leave him alone. “What about you? Are you seeing anybody?”

Dean made a noncommittal sound. “Fucked this kid, Kevin.”

A dagger pierced Sam, lodged in his chest and exploded into a million slivers of shrapnel. It was a bad game that he couldn’t win. Had no business playing in the first place. “And if brothers don’t want to talk about that?”

“He’s not--”

“Anything else. Please.”

“Okay,” Dean said. “I’ve got, you know, some meaningful shit I’m doing.”

“Yeah?” Sam asked, brow raised although Dean couldn’t see. “Anything you want to talk about?”

“Just, uh, some do gooder crap. You’d be into it, I think.” 

“You know, you can talk to me. Even if we’re…” Sam bit his lip, mulling over which words to use. “I’d like to know everything about it.”

There was a moment of silence in which Sam was sure he’d pushed too hard. Then, Dean said, “Okay. There’s this guy. He’s got this never-ending list of kids and I’m like some kind of queer fairy godfather going around telling them it’s cool to be gay … if that’s what you are, you know.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

Sam took the moment he needed to imagine it. “I would have done anything in the world to meet a guy like you when I was in high school.”

“Why? You think we would have hooked up?”

Sam laughed. His heart skipped at the playfulness, the flirtation in Dean’s voice. It was like those early days, way back when they’d only met that once and all they had was a handful of texts between them. Just like back then, Dean was dangling from the ceiling of his life like the juiciest peach, just out of reach. “Oh, I know we would have hooked up.” 

“What makes you think I would have liked you back then?”

This conversation was like dancing through a minefield. Dean seemed to want to play, but Sam could be misreading. What he couldn't do was stop himself from waltzing forward. “I would have made you like me.” 

“Yeah? How would you have done that?”

“I would have fallen on my knees and begged you to let me suck your cock.” The words spilled out like a prayer he’d memorized for confirmation. “I would have begged you every single day until you let me have it. Until you let me take you in my mouth and show you how much I lo… How hot you are. How fucking sexy. I…” 

Sam had never done anything like this in his life and his heart beat out of control, muscles tensed. Dean breath was heavy on the other line, an invitation to proceed.  
Sam lifted his hips so he could free himself from his sweatpants.

“I would... “ He closed his eyes. “I would touch you. Hold you, feel the weight of you. You're so big when you want to be inside of me. So perfect. And the smell. I love the smell of you. I would lick you until you spill, just a little on my tongue. That's when I know how bad you want me. You do want me, don’t you, Dean? Because I want you. I want to rub my face in your fucking crotch and get that smell all over me. So everyone knows I belong to you.  
And then, um, I’m going to lap the tip of your cock with the tip of my tongue until you can’t stand it. Until you force me to take it. And you just ram it in. All the way until you fill up my throat. Oh God, I want to choke for you, Dean. You like it when I do that? I know you do. Know how much you like to control me, and I love it when you grab my hair and just make me do whatever you want. Hold me still. Fuck my face. Please, Dean. Fuck my face. God. I fucking love it so much. God. Oh, God. I’m going to… Dean. My God. I’m going to come.”

The frogs and crickets seemed to sing louder after Sam had groaned out his release, coating his hand, making a mess of himself. 

“Dean?” Sam let out a final labored breath. “You still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Was that okay? Did you...”

“I have to go.”

“Please, don’t do that.” 

But he was already gone and Sam needed to go inside and get clean. 

 

***

Garth was born for monkey bars.  
Dean pulled his jacket tighter and took another drag while the bony fucker dangled upside down like a bat. Both of their breath hung on the air although Dean’s was laced with smoke and Garth had never been peer pressured into picking up his nasty habit.  
Dean would quit. When this was shitshow was over, he’d kick it.

“Why’d you tell that kid to go for me?”

“What kid?” Garth asked, swinging back and forth with his fingertips brushing along the mulch.

“Kevin Tran.”

“Oh yeah. He’s cute, right?”

“Hell, yeah, he’s cute. He’s fucking adorable.”

“Is that not your thing? Only like bigger guys?”

“Fuck you, Fitzgerald.” Dean kicked wood chips at Garth’s head.

“What? He seemed smitten. I figured, you’d let him down easy and he could get over it. Or else, you’d hook up and stop dragging your ass around over football or Sam or whatever your problem is these days.”

“My problem?” Dean tossed the cigarette to the soggy ground. “What problems? I have no problems. My life is fucking awesome.”

Garth reached up and swung his feet down, landing a perfect ten. “You want to do this?” 

“No.” 

Garth gave him the soiled Band-aid. They’d scoured the elementary school grounds for three hours in the dark to find the gross thing. The spell called for a drop of innocent’s blood. They’d tried Garth’s to no avail. Dean certainly didn’t have that anymore. How the hell else were they supposed to get it?

“What if the kid is a punk bully?” Garth asked.

Dean held the bandage over the concoction they had painstakingly brewed in Mildred’s silver salad bowl. “It’s probably some second grader who skinned his knee.” 

“But what if it…”

“Garth, would you shut the fuck up?” Dean dropped it and spoke the incantation as best he could.

It was the only spell they’d found that required ingredients that: a) they actually knew what they were, b) could figure out how to get. 

Both Dean and Garth leapt back when a dark pillar of smoke materialized from thin air and swiftly unfurled to reveal a human figure. Garth covered his whole face with his hands. Dean had seen cooler tricks and got right to the point. “You’re not Crowley.” 

“No shit, Copernicus.” The decrepit old man rolled his eyes around the playground.

“Who are you?”

“Wish for something or let me go, you little punk?”

“Wish for something?” Dean asked. “Can you get Crowley?”

“What the fuck do I look like?”

“Mick Jagger,” Garth blurted. 

Dean and the decidedly Jagger-looking demon gawked at him.

The demon ran a hand over his hair. "He wishes."

“So, we can ask for anything?” Garth took a step closer. 

Dean stopped his friend with a hand on his chest. “With a price, right?”

The demon smiled, revealing sharp, yellow teeth. “Everything has a price, son. What are your deepest desires worth to you?”

Garth turned his back to the demon, eyes on Dean, trying to convince him with a series of wide-eyed facial expressions that this could be a good thing.

“I can see you two are a pair of seasoned mages.” The demon looked at his watch. “How on earth you pulled off this spell is beyond me. But the idea is that you geniuses trap me until I fulfill a wish, so … can we get on with it?”

“You’re not who we--”

“Theoretically,” Garth interrupted. “Could you make a girl fall in love with me, if she already was and then she changed her mind and started liking this other guy? Or else make her die?”

“Garth.”

The demon’s dangerous grin grew even darker. “Absolutely.”

“Can you help us trap Crowley?” Dean asked. That was the idea, not all this stuff with Garth’s ex.

Jagger shrugged. “That’s above my paygrade.”

Garth was about to speak again when Dean kicked over the bowl, spilling its contents. “Then, get lost.”

Garth groaned as the demon disintegrated. “You realize what we just threw away?”

“Trust me, it’s not for free,” Dean said. “That's not how this stuff works.”


	55. Chapter 55

DECEMBER 23

Elbows on his desk, head in hands, Sam had work to do before his flight the next day, unless he wanted it for Christmas. Ballet Mom Jen had come through with three new clients for him. If he could only work up the energy to turn on his computer.

He'd been fine. Coasting, but getting by, if only for Luna’s sake. Leaving Dean alone, since that was clearly what he wanted.

How many times had Sam been in this position: wanting, only to be refused? And why?  
For no reason Sam could understand other than that Dean wasn’t ready. He was so young and maybe he’d never be the type of person who could be in a real relationship. Sam had to get on with life or lose his mind.

In a moment of clarity and desperation, he texted Cole.  
And Cole texted back.

Sam sat his phone, face down on the desk, took a deep breath and let the chill rack his body.  
He was going to do this. He needed to.

***

Singer glanced up from his paperwork. Once Dean closed the door, he stood there waiting for the reason the old coot had called and requested this meeting on the last day before the break.

“Have a seat.”

Dean did as he was asked, although his instinct told him he was in for some kind of reprimand. Too much flirting? Not enough sticking to the script? Worst case scenario, Singer would tell him to hit the road.

Then, Dean would be reduced to begging. He would never have believed it, but he was starting to identify himself with talking to these kids. Here, he thought he was using the old man, but if Singer told him to get lost, it would suck.

“We've got surveys back from 5 of the 7 families you've visited.”

So, it was about that.  
Dean picked up a pen from the desk and clicked it open and closed. Jody was right; everybody loved or hated him. So what did this survey say? Singer narrowed his eyes. Dean put down the pen.

“I never seen results like this. Usually we get kids who feel comforted by the visits. Or annoyed. But we've got an overwhelming majority who want to come work for us when they're old enough ... who feel like you’ve made a positive difference in their lives.”

Dean huffed, blinked rapidly, hoping Singer couldn’t see whatever emotion he was trying to keep back.

“It's a good thing.”

Dean nodded too long to be casual. “That it?”

“Not quite.” Singer closed the file. “I thought we had a mutual respect going.”

“We do.”

“Then, why the hell do you and Garth Fitzgerald keep breaking into my cellar?”

***

With her round face and bright orange hair, Sayler hardly looked old enough to drive, let alone take care of another child. But she was Ruby’s babysitter. Luna knew her and she arrived five minutes early.

Three quarters dressed, Sam bustled around the living room, picking up toys and casting them into the box. Luna scurried behind him, whining and pulling everything back out.

"Mr. Winchester.” Sayler grabbed the little terror by the shoulders. “I totally have this under control. Mouse,” she said, addressing Luna. “Puzzles or dollies? Pick."

Luna sucked her teeth. "Puzzles."

"Okay. So. Dollies go away.” Sayler smiled at Sam. “Seriously. We're fine."

Sam nodded and took a deep breath.  
They were fine. He was losing it.  
All of this was new, every bit of it. And he still wasn't convinced it was a good idea.  
Who went on a first date two days before Christmas? Why as Sam dating at all?

"Um..." The teen pointed at his shirt, which was hanging half out of his pants and misbuttoned.

Sam swore under his breath, sprinted back to his room, fixed his shirt, and was twisting a tie when the doorbell rang.

Also early.

Sam swore again and stubbed his toe on his way out of the bedroom. Hopping on one foot, he shouted, "Don't let him in!"

He shrugged into his dinner jacket and hobbled to the living room, carrying one shoe with the intention of waiting until the last minute to squeeze his throbbing foot into it. Cole was already inside, handsome in a suit jacket and jeans, with a potted canna lily. “You really ought to have some of these in your front yard. I know a guy at the hardware store, cut you a good deal.”

Sam dropped his shoe to accept the plant. “Thank you.”

“You look…”

As Cole searched for an adjective, Luna scrambled into the room and launched herself at Sam’s leg. "Do you want to be my daddy's boyfriend, Cold Slaw?"

Cole chuckled. Sam flushed.

"I think I might like that."

"Well, you can't, because uncle Dean is his boyfriend."

Cole’s brow raised.

Sam cleared his throat and corrected. "Was. Isn’t anymore.” He lifted his little chaperone for a kiss. "Have a good night, Sayler. Good luck."

"He IS, Daddy."

Sayler took Luna off Sam’s hands.

"IS!” Luna shrieked as Sam opened the door. “You can be Daddy’s friend, but you can't smooch him, and you can’t sleep in his bed."

"Luna!” It was the first time Sam had raised his voice at her.

Her little eyes widened, and she shrank back as if noticing for the first time how big her daddy was. She buried her face in Sayler’s hair.

“Please.” Sam stroked her back, but she wouldn’t come out. “That's enough."

 

***

 

Dean’s first instinct was to deny the accusation outright. Before he’d even opened his mouth, the old man said, “You didn’t think to look for cameras, you idjit? Nice job not busting up my locks. Looks like you got some experience with B&E. Now, what the hell were you after?”

Dean slid to the edge of his seat. “I'm assuming I can tell you this shit because of the light fucking reading we found down there.”

Singer scrubbed at the scruff on his chin. “You know I could call the cops, right.?”

“Yeah, and I could call the Men in Black ... or whoever deals with this kind of shit.”

“People like me deal with this kind of shit,” Singer said. “Or at least, I used to. What the hell made you think--”

“Garth said after the thing happened with him and my … with Jody, that he had barely mentioned it and you said some kind of thing. Crystal?”

“Christo.” Singer took off his glasses and pinched the space between his bushy eyebrows. “Well, shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you find what you were after?”

“No.” Dean slumped back in his chair, arms folded.

“If it's demon related, I can probably help.”

“I doubt it.”

“Try me. What the hell is going on?” It was the old man’s job to pry. Couldn’t blame him for that. “Why don't we start with your mom?”

“She’s not my mom. She’s the lying bitch that raised me.”

“Okay. Feeling a little bit like Freud here, but … carry on.” Singer pulled out the silver flask.

Dean declined the offer. On second thought, he reached out and helped himself to a long draw of a liquid that nipped his nose hairs even before he knocked back an acidic swig. Dean swallowed and opened his mouth to see if he could breathe fire. “What the hell is that? Rocket fuel?”

“Home brew. Glad you approve.” Singer held out his hand for his flask. “You were saying. Your mama.”

“She always told me…” Dean shook his head, trying to clear it. “Maybe she never did. I don't know. What I do know is that my father delivered me to her when I was a little baby, and she kept me in some kind of fucking box for 14 years.”

“A cage?”

“No. A box. Like a golden shoe box,” Dean said. “That like, froze me in time.”

Singer rubbed his hands over his mouth. “Held you in stasis? You didn't age, eat, shit. Time stands still, but only for you?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “That.”

“Why?”

“I don't fucking know. Because she’s a demon.” The chair was getting small and confining beneath him. Dean popped to his feet and looked around the office for something to keep his hands busy. “Look, what I need is some way to keep the King of Hell from jumping my bones on my 18th birthday. You got anything like that?”

“Crowley?”

Dean threw his hands in the air. “When did it stop being Satan? Why does everyone know about this but me?”

“It was a Lucifer for a long time, but things change.” Singer scratched at his chin. “Why are you even on Crowley's radar?”

“Because my father made some kind of deal, sold my blood, but Jody… I don’t fucking know. Crowley doesn’t want that anymore. Wants me to make a new deal when I come of age.”

“He got a claim to you?”

Dean pulled down the collar of his t-shirt to show the crescent-shaped brand that Jody had always told him was a birthmark.

“Balls.”

“Yeah. Pretty much.” Dean rubbed his mark. “Could we burn it off?

“It’s probably soul-deep, kid. We’re looking for potent, ancient magic that could reverse or undo an infernal brand. That ain’t bottom shelf spellwork.” Singer scraped his nails over his thin salt and pepper hair. “On the other hand, he’s gambling. If he made a deal for your maiden blood, that things wears off when you turn 18. Just like you said. If he waits and lets the original contract lapse, his right to you ends at midnight of your 18th birthday. After that, if you say ‘No,’ he can’t do shit about it. He have anything he can hold over your head?”

Dean’s gut clenched.

“Is it the guy Garth’s been telling me about?”

“Garth has a big fucking mouth.”

“That he does.”

Dean sighed and swiped a hand over his face. “I've been trying to distance myself. Cut ties, you know. Will that make any difference?”

“Maybe. Could help. It’d be best if you stop having feelings for him.”

“Yeah.” Dean laughed without an ounce of humor. “You got a spell for that?”

“Probably can find one easier than breaking the brand. That what you want to do?”

Dean chewed on his lip for a second before he nodded. “Maybe not the worst idea. It’d make him safe, right?”

“Maybe.” Singer shrugged. “As long as Crowley thinks you don't give a shit, he’s safe.”

“I wouldn’t want to forget him. Just get over it, you know.”

“Both ways, right? Him over you, too.”

“Yeah. That’s probably --” The words stuck in Dean’s throat.  
Final. And absolutely for the best.

“We wouldn’t have to do it today. Just before your birthday.”

Dean nodded.

“Your guy… he knows about all this?”

“How the hell could I tell someone about this?”

“You love him, right?”

Dean refused to answer. Couldn’t see the relevance.

“You know, you’re allowed to love someone.”

Dean cleared his throat and jerked his head in a way that could be read as nodding.

“Boy. You do more hiding than a Goddamn turtle," Singer said. "If he doesn't know you, how can he love you back? And if you’re going to wipe his memory, the least you can do is have the decency to tell him about it first. You might want to … get in some quality time before then. Not that you’ll remember, but it’s sure as hell what I’d do.”

“So, that’s the plan? We wipe everybody, make me indifferent, so Crowley can’t blackmail me? Then I just say no?”

“It's a plan.” Singer said. “It's always good to have more than one in case something goes wrong with the first. But it’s a damn solid plan.”

 

***

 

Cole’s choice in restaurants wasn't too upscale, but reservations were required, and they were seated in a quiet corner. The menu selections were in Spanish with translations below. No burritos. No burgers.

He ordered a bottle of Pinot Noir for the table and water for Sam, because he remembered.

After tasting his wine, Cole rested the glass back on the table. “You never said to what I owe this change of heart?”

“Uh, you can thank my ex, actually.” Sam stabbed a black olive with his toothpick.

“Luna's mom? Or did Complicated in Kansas give you his blessing?”

Sam chuckled. “It’s not, actually, all that complicated. I've been chasing him for over a year and uh, what was there initially just isn't anymore, I guess.” The taste of the words made Sam’s stomach turn, but he kept choking them up and spitting them out. “It was a flash in the pan, I think, because, he’s … There just comes a time, you know…”

“What I know is that it’s his loss.”

“He wants to be with other people and --”

Cole rested his chin in his hand. “You mean… fuck other people?”

“I seem to attract men who can’t keep it in their pants. So, yeah.” Sam downed half of his water and studied the olives like there was going to be a test. How had they even gotten on this topic?

“You know, Sam, correct me if I’m wrong, but it sounds like you got a little heteronormative territorialism going on.”

Sam blinked.

“And if I can speak candidly, it doesn’t belong in our culture. I mean, we’re men. Why should we let ourselves get caught up in some little girl’s one prince/one princess fairy tale when that isn't what our biology wants. It isn't what our desires dictate. Straight men who live like that do it for their women. And there’s nothing wrong with making that choice, but part of the gay male sexual revolution is reclaiming our right to love differently from our straight brothers and sisters. You know what I’m saying?”

“You’re saying I should let him cheat on me.”

Cole laughed. “No. I’m saying … There are other ways to look at things.” Cole held his hand open in the center of the table and for some reason, Sam placed his over it. “Love doesn't have to hurt, Sam. It's not supposed to be complicated. It’s supposed to be the most beautiful, simplest thing in the world and if it's not like that ... Well, I’d like to show you how it can be. Even if it's not forever, it can be real good.”

Sam took back his hand and had a long, slow drink of water. It did little to ease his dry mouth but gave him a moment to hide from Cole’s penetrating sky-blue gaze. Same color as Castiel’s.

“So, are you bi?”

“What? No.” Sam shook his head.

“Marriage a mistake, then?” Cole poured Sam more water from the carafe.

“No. Not what I would call it.”

“I didn't mean--”

“It's okay.” Sam nodded his gratitude and had another drink. “I’d say it was a learning experience without which I would never have had Luna. So in that regard, one of the best choices of my life.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Cole glanced around the restaurant as if he’d lost something. “Kids are... kind of an enigma to me.”

“Were to me, too. Still are.” Sam laughed. “I'm definitely learning as I go.”

“She seems sweet, though.”

Sam nodded and forked a prawn. “She is, when she’s not being a monster.”

Cole rested his fingers on his lips as if he was pointing out to Sam where to look.

“Let me ask you something,” Sam said. “And I want you to tell me the truth.”

“I’m an open book, Sam.” Cole rested his fork to field the question.

“Did you pull over so you could get laid?”

Cole grinned. “You want the truth? I looped around and passed you guys twice and what I saw was a super hot guy with car trouble and a kid hanging out of his window. It never even occurred to me that you might actually be one of us until I got out of my truck and you gave me that look.”

Sam scoffed. “I did not give you any --”

“You did. The point is, I pulled over to see if I could help. I invited myself into your place that day because I thought I might get laid. I’m buying you dinner tonight with similar hopes. And that's the God’s honest truth. ”

Sam laughed and pressed his chin to his chest.

“Man, that’s some hell of a smile you got there.”

Sam tried to smooth his features, face warming as it dawned on him that this was his first date with someone who was not clinically insane or legally a child.

 

***

Their tapas came with a side of flamenco. After dinner, they took a walk, Cole holding Sam’s hand and talking about his military upbringing. When the conversation dried up, he’d done a silly imitation of the male dancer’s moves and the singer’s strident trill, serenading Sam with nonsense syllables and a hand over his heart.

Cole insisted on walking Sam to his door.

“You're quite the gentleman.”

“Not always.” He grabbed a fistful of Sam’s shirt and dragged him down into a scorching kiss.

The sweep of tongue over the seam of his lips weakened Sam’s knees, and he inhaled sharply when Cole let him go. There was fire in the center of his chest and a chink in his armor. Sam’s body would have no problem with this. It would be the first step to freeing his mind and his captive heart.

“I know your little girl’s here tonight or else I’d make you let me in.”

Sam laughed a little, fumbling with his keys.

“When can I see you again?”

Cole: bright, engaging, and almost exactly Sam's age. They were born two weeks apart.  
Former military, but that apparently hadn't made him manic.  
Interested in travel and languages and technology. Liked football, but wasn’t a fanatic.  
He’d been out and proud for ten years and was so comfortable in his skin, that Sam couldn't help but relax around him, except for when Cole stared into his eyes like he was hunting down his soul. Then Sam squirmed as if there were scarab beetles beneath his skin.

Other points in Cole’s favor: he was not Sam’s brother. Nor was he unpredictable, unkind or aggressive.

By all accounts, it had been an enjoyable and interesting date.  
So far as Sam could tell, there was only one problem with Cole.  
He wasn’t Dean.  
He was a cheap, China-made knockoff.  
But Sam couldn't have Dean, so, there wasn’t really a problem at all.

“It’s not too late. You could come to my place for a little bit.” Cole suggested while Sam deliberated. “I'll pay whatever the babysitter asks.”

Sam lowered his warming face again.

Cole placed both hands on the door, trapping Sam between them. “You are one incredibly sexy man, Sam Winchester. I know you know that.”

Sam allowed another kiss that quickly escalated to Cole’s arm around him, a hand on his ass, a tongue down his throat. Then Cole’s other palm kneaded his growing erection until Sam pushed him away.

“I could make you forget him ... at least for a little while. Maybe for good.”

Sam looked at his feet, blood in his veins running molten and arctic at once.

Cole wiped Sam’s hair from his face, pinning a lock behind his ear. “If you wanted that.”

“I do.”

“Yeah. I know. We’ve all been there. Consider it a public service.”

Sam heard himself say, "After the holidays.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

Sam smiled and slipped into the house before he did anything he did and didn't want to do.


	56. Chapter 56

DECEMBER 25

The introductions went as Dean had anticipated. Both Mildred and Angela sized Singer up like they hadn’t had enough to eat. Mildred even had the nerve to lick her wrinkly lipsticked mouth. Dean certainly wasn’t going to be the one to break it to either of them, although he suspected Angela would figure it out sooner than later.

Mildred certainly had Angie pegged. When she and Dean were alone in the kitchen pouring drinks, she’d winked and said, “You certainly keep interesting company, don’t you?”

The four misfit souls played cards and talked about nothing in particular, but definitely not about holidays or family or any of that crap.

Singer pressed a lumpy, one-sided doubloon into Dean’s hand and grumbled, “Don’t lose that.”

Mildred had already emailed her gift: an online subscription to Playboy. “For the articles,” she’d said with a wink.

Dean squeezed the old bird and said, “She gets me.”

That was the extent of the festivities. It was a lot like Christmas with Jody - not remotely like Christmas. He missed her and hated himself for it. The most important thing was not to mention her or think about her or about anything else, which is what movies were made for.

Dean’s favorite scene was coming up: the part where everybody gets gunned down. Angela elbowed him in the ribs every time he muttered the lines too loudly for her taste.

When the doorbell rang, Mildred called out from the kitchen, “Don't all of you run at once.”

She opened the door and Luna scampered across the room squealing before she launched herself into Dean’s lap.

“Hey, squirt.” Dean lifted her onto his legs, so that she was facing away from the TV. “Somebody pause this crap.”

The onscreen action froze. Luna leaned forward to whisper, “You should go and smooch my daddy.”

He chuckled and tugged her hair. Would Sam have put her up to that?

Mildred accepted foil covered magnificence that was filling the room with a fresh-baked fragrance. Sam said, “My mom wanted me to bring this over.”

“The kid or the cake?” Mildred asked.

Sam smiled. Dean tried not to look at him at all. It was easy enough with Luna pulling on his ear and vying for a him to turn his knees into a horseback ride.

Angela stroked Luna’s hair. Then, she floated from the sofa over to Sam, standing on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek. Sam’s hand was on the small of her back, that spot. Dean tried to focus on what Luna was telling him.

“You two are fucking killing me,” Angela said.

Dean glanced over his shoulder. Sam was staring at Dean as hard as Dean was trying not to see him.

“What’s fucking, Daddy?”

Mildred took Luna’s hand and coaxed her down Dean’s lap into the kitchen. “Why don’t you two go for a walk? I’ll take her back over when she’s ready.”

Before Dean could work up the nerve to be alone with Sam, Singer stood and extended a hand. “Robert Singer. Dean may have mentioned you once or twice.”

“Yeah. Singer saw you play.” Dean stood before the old coot could say anything else about what Dean might or might not have said.

“That’s right, I did,” he said. “High school ball. My… partner at the time was a Garfield alum. Went nuts when you went all the way. He’d go crazy if he knew I was shaking your hand right now.”

“Oh. Um…Thanks.”

Singer was kind enough to return Sam’s hand. “You two were about to take a walk.”

Angela curled her arm around Singer’s. “Yes. Go walk.”

Dean raised a brow. The old man had faced down some terror in his days, but Angie was a whole new level. His wide-eyed expression showed he knew when to be afraid.

Street lamps, colored lights, inflatable reindeer. Dean watched his breath, and finally came to rest in front of an illuminated green alien with a Santa hat on its oblong head.

“My mom’s got a present for you.”

Dean shook his head. He didn't let his mind anywhere near the topic of Mary Winchester. He’d been robbed of his fresh-baked cookies and lullabies childhood. It was more than he could take.

“She says she hasn’t seen you since--”

“Is that what you want to talk about?”

Sam looked at Martian Santa as if he, too, was coming to understand the true meaning of the season. “I got something for you.” When Dean didn’t respond, he added, “I didn’t spend any money on it. I know how you feel about that.”

“I just… can’t keep up, you know?”

“Not a race, Dean. I give you things because I want you to have them.” Sam rummaged his pocket and pulled out his balled up fist. “Okay, full disclosure. I think I paid about a buck for it when I was 8, maybe. We were at this flea market in Albuquerque. I don’t know why I kept it or why I’m giving it to you now. You want to close your eyes?”

Dean rolled his eyes before he complied and let Sam hang something around his neck. Part of him had expected a kiss; even more of him wanted one. But Sam was too well-behaved for that. They were brothers, after all.

When he was allowed to look Dean lifted the amulet in his palm to get another look. It was an ugly little thing. Sam hadn’t even bothered to wrap it.

Not to be outdone in random gift giving perfection, Dean reached into his back pocket and pulled out the coin Singer gave him. The old man would understand that this was an emergency, because Dean hadn’t done shit for Sam for Christmas. It wasn’t something he was used to.

Sam scrutinized it. “Is this what I think it is?”

“What do you think it is?”

“Oh, my God. This can’t be real, is it? It is, isn’t it?” Sam covered his mouth with his free hand. “This belongs in a museum. Where on earth did you even get it?”

“Uh… Singer gave it to me.”

“Singer. The…” Sam jerked his thumb back toward Mildred’s house.

“He’s got kind of an interesting background.” That was as much as Sam needed to know.

“Archeology?”

“I guess.” That wasn’t quite a lie.

Sam lifted Dean’s hand and put in the coin. He curled the fingers around it and closed the hand between his own. “I have no idea what something like that could be worth. You need to put it in a safety deposit box. We’ll open one tomorrow.”

“I’m sure it’s not--”

“Put it in your pocket. Now.”

Dean obeyed.

Sam studied his face with this look of awe that had to be for the coin. His hand curled around Dean’s neck and pulled him into a warm hug. “You crazy kid. Look at what you do to people.”

 

***

As expected, hardly anybody was shooting billiards on Christmas night, just a few hard necks. Dean lead Sam into the room as somebody was breaking, balls cracking loud against one another on the far end of the hall.

Sam paid for a burger and a beer, both of which were fuel for the kid to start working the place. Only three tables had games going, but Dean stopped at each one, hustling players out of $20 here, $50 there.

Then Dean took up residence beside a tall Asian girl who seemed unable to stop smiling at whatever he was whispering beneath her hair. At one point, his hand slid around her waist and she cracked up laughing.

Sam shook his head, blew off some steam and just waited for it to be over.

Dean returned to the table grinning like he’d just gotten everything on his wish list. He finished up what was in the bottle, slammed it onto the table and burped. “So, how’s your guy?”

So that’s what the whole display was all about. “He’s not--”

“You still seeing him?”

“I see him, because he won’t stop coming around.”

“Sounds smart.” Dean leaned back on his bench, arms spread, taking up more space than necessary. “That’s how I got you to go out with me. Remember that?”

“We’re not…”

“You should let yourself live a little, Sam.”

“And Kevin?” Two could play this game, although Sam didn’t want to. He was just trying to avoid being beaten into the ground when he didn’t even know the rules.

“He's a good kid... just reads too much into everything.”

Dean’s new friend was staring. “Someone’s looking for you.”

He raised his empty bottle to her, pretended to spill it and frowned. She nodded. “You never flirt with ‘em? Just for kicks?”

“That seems cruel,” Sam said.

“No way, man. All in good fun.” Dean opened both arms wide as the girl approached with two bottles of beer. Dean commandeered both and scooted over to make space for her. “Lane, this is my brother, Sam.”

“Hello, Dean's brother, Sam.” She looked him over while she took a swig from the bottle and then presented it.

Lane was in her early twenties. Pretty, slender, busty. “What the hell was in the water your mother was drinking?”

Dean knocked back a long slog of his beer.

“Actually, we have different moms,” Sam said. “I mean, not that you…”

“So, what do you boys have planned for the rest of this holy night?”

“No plans,” Dean wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “What do you want to do?”

She bit her lip, eyes poring over Dean first, then Sam. “You two ever play together?”

Dean laughed. “I don't think that'd be Sammy's style. Family man and all.” Dean winked, although whether it was for Sam or Lane was unclear.

“That's too bad.” Her grunt was intended to pass for a compliment. “What about just you?”

Sam braced himself to be abandoned at the pool hall - to watch Dean leave with his arm around this girl.

“Ah, not tonight, sweetie,” Dean said. “Brother’s in town. Got to keep him company, right?”

She pouted. “Another time then.”

“You bet.”

As she walked away, Sam asked, “Am I cramping your style?”

“I'm not sure we could keep up with her.”

Sam chuckled and finished his water while Dean worked on the second beer Lane had brought, his third of the night.

“So, you told that girl you’d be keeping me company. Does that mean you want to check out my hotel room?”

Dean’s brow shot up.

“Pretty wicked minibar.” And here Sam was, bribing a minor with alcohol and praying to God it would lead to sex. It was about as low as one could sink and he couldn’t make himself feel bad about it. “You in?”

Dean blinked as he finished what was in his bottle. “Yeah, alright.”

 

***

 

Dean tossed his coat over the back of the sofa like he owned the place and went right for the remote. “Wanna watch something?”

“Already am.” Sam had taken a chair across the room.

Dean smirked. “Cheesy.”

“I learned from the best.”

“What’s up over here?” Dean sauntered to the minibar and shook his ass as he bent over to peruse the chilled options.

Sam made no attempts not to ogle him.

Dean stood with a tiny bottle of vodka which he promptly twisted open and emptied.

“You want to take it easy over there?”

Dean bent for another. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

His next drink was a small bottle of whiskey. He gulped a bit and turned around, licking his lips.

Sam held out a hand and held his breath.

“I'm not about to sit in your lap, dude.” Dean stood between Sam’s knees, drinking while Sam worked open his fly.

Sam lifted his shirt, kissed his navel, pawed his ribs, his flanks, his abs. He pulled the jeans down around Dean’s knees and buried his face in the groove between thigh and groin, breathing in his musk like he needed it to survive.

When he looked up, Dean stroked a palm over Sam’s stubbled cheek and gave him a light pat. “You ever grow a beard?”

“Few times.” Sam smiled and wrapped his arm around Dean’s waist, resting his face on his stomach.

“I want to see what that looks like.”

“I won't shave while I'm up here.”

“How long?”

“About 8 days.”

Dean pinched his earlobe and nodded. His fingers slid through Sam’s hair, blunt nails scraping over his scalp and holding his hair back. “I miss your face.”

“How much did you drink?”

Dean grinned and had a bit more. He leaned forward. Sam’s lips parted, thirsty for his mouth. Saliva-diluted whiskey dripped onto his tongue. Sam wiped the dribble from his chin. There was no point complaining. He should have seen it coming.

When Dean cupped the back of Sam’s skull and held the bottle to his mouth, Sam turned away.

“Get drunk with me."

Sam took the bottle and put it on the floor beside his chair. He nuzzled Dean’s shaft, reacquainting with an old friend. "Is he good? Kevin.”

“No. Not really. He's enthusiastic and sloppy.”

“You're his first?”

Dean nodded.

“That poor kid.”

Dean tensed beneath Sam’s hands. “You think I'd hurt him?”

“Not intentionally. Just … he must be so in love with you.”

“He might think he is, but that’s just because he doesn’t know me.” Dean’s eyes fluttered shut. He began to stroke himself slow and languid as if he would fall asleep standing there.

Sam took that pretty, rigid rod from him. “You know, you were my first, too.”

“Bullshit. You already told me it was Castiel.”

“Yours was the first cock in my mouth. You were the first to breed me.”

Dean’s eyes opened. “Breed you?”

“To come inside me.”

“Yeah, I know what it means.”

“You're the only one. No one else has had me, that way. I don't want that to change.” Sam’s voice was hardly audible, even to his own ears.

“You're so fucking old fashioned.”

“Maybe. But it feels right to me.” Sam stood, watching Dean’s eyes darken, drowning in the expressions that flitted over his face as he came apart in Sam’s hand. And as Sam licked the essence from his fingers.

Coming down from his climax, Dean slipped to his knees. Sam thought to stop him, but he wanted Dean to see. Wanted him to know the full effect he had.

The kid opened Sam’s zipper and stared at Sam's flagging erection in his sticky. “Did you already ...”

Sam grinned. He’d spent the entire night so wound up and wanting that he’d climaxed in tandem with Dean’s bliss.

“Oh.”

***

He was home: head on Sam’s arm, eyes shut, smile welded in place by the low rumble of Sam’s voice, so close again. “There’d be a massive library.”

“For you.”

“You could use it.”

“Meh.”

“And a fully stocked kitchen.” Sam’s finger booped Dean’s nose.

“That’s more like it. And this is all underground?”

“That’s right.” Sam nipped his ear.

“What about a pool?”

“If you want.”

“I want,” Dean said. “And a big ass table with a map of the world? Saw one in a movie once. Those things are awesome.”

“Fine. If you want.”

Dean smiled, actually envisioning the whole stupid fantasy bunker. “Yeah, allright. I’ll move in with you. The day after it’s built. But how are we not going to suffocate?”

“I’ll figure it out.”


	57. Chapter 57

DECEMBER 26

When Dean’s eyes fluttered open, he was on his back with one arm above his head. It was an awkward position to have slept in. His attempt to stretch was met by a metallic snick above his right ear. “No.”

“Sh sh sh.” Sam smiled above him, securing the other hand. “My Christmas present, remember?”

“No.” The cuffs rattled as he struggled. “No. No. No!” he shouted, kicked and flailed.

“Okay. Okay.” Sam whisked around to the other side of the bed, clamoring in the drawer of the bedside table.

A single white candle burned. Otherwise, the room was cloaked in sinister darkness.

“No. No.” Dean chanted as if that was an incantation that would rewrite the past.

His arms were free, folded around his ribs and he went on murmuring until Sam’s hand branded his back. Dean jumped and looked up into gentle hazel eyes. “Don’t.”

Sam pressed warm lips to Dean’s temple. Long, strong arms encircled him as Sam rocked them. “Jesus. I’m sorry.”

Dean’s breathing and pulse were out of control. The room spinning, his body shaking. Then there was Sam’s heart, steady beneath his cheek. Sam’s chest rose and fell, the rhythm calming him.

Long after Dean stopped seeing not-father’s scalpel and blade jutting from not-mother’s sternum, Sam was still holding him. The only evidence of time having passed at all was Sam’s candle burnt nearly to the quick.

“Will you tell me why?”

A hollow ache still gripped his chest. “When my… when that asshole... “

“You don’t have to say it.”

“What did you want to do to me?” Dean asked, voice hushed and small.

Above him, Sam shook his head, chin brushing over Dean’s hair. “I’m an idiot.”

“How were you supposed to know? It should have been hot and I…”

“Dean.”

“Tell me what you wanted.”

“I want you to feel safe.”

Dean slid back so he could look into Sam’s face. “What did you want?”

“I wanted for you… not to be able to run away from me.”

Dean scoffed. “I wouldn’t do that.”

Sam’s brows raised.

“Not…” Any running he’d done was always with good reason. “What if I didn’t move?” He laid back, spread his arms and grabbed the bracelets of the cuffs, holding them tight in both hands. “I could, but I won’t.”

Sam wiped his clammy forehead. “Dean.”

“What do you want?” He struggled to keep his breath even.

“You don't have to.”

“Come on.” He was going to do this if it killed him.

Sam straddled his chest and stroked his face, huge and gentle.

“Come on, Sam.” Dean dropped his head back onto the pillow and tried to force himself to relax.

He licked his lips and nodded as the tip of Sam's dick painted his lips. Multicolored eyes watched him, waiting for even a crack.

Dean would not break. That sadistic motherfucker would not take this from Sam. Dean’s fingers clenched tighter around the cuffs until his knuckles ached.

Sam patted his dick on Dean’s outstretched tongue. “You're so good, baby.”

Dean took Sam into his mouth and moaned, silently begging Sam to take him until he forgot everything that had ever poisoned his mind or his blood.

Sam raised on his haunches, angling to press deeper, but slowly, carefully as Dean opened to him: throat and soul.

_Fuck my face, Sam. Please, do it._

As if he’d heard, Sam pulled back a few inches and penetrated even deeper, withdrawing again when Dean gagged and coughed around the glorious burn in his throat. Sam caressed his face and began to retreat down his body, peppering kisses on his forehead and cheek.

“No. Finish. Please."

“Dean.”

“Sam. I need it.” There was no other way to explain it. Nothing more he could have said.

Sam only allowed the thick head and first few inches to enter him. His face strained with care as he made love to Dean’s face, caressing his cheek with one hand, massaging his scalp with the other and grinding into him so sweetly. Dean’s eyes watered at the fullness, the sweetness, the kindness.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, Dean. God, you’re …” From above, Sam groaned and plied him with more obscene praises until he pulled out entirely and began to jerk himself and Dean opened to receive.

Sam cried out. Dean’s eyes shut in time for the lid of his right to be coated in the first thick stream. He breathed in Sam’s scent as another warm rope fell over his face and splattered his tongue, salty, tangy. Sam flavored.

Dean swallowed and licked his lips clean while Sam wiped come from his eyes and his neck.

"Wow."

Sam's lips were pursed, mouth poised to apologize.

"That was hot. Did you like it?"

"Yeah."

"Good." Dean released the cuff and flexed his fingers. He sighed and kneaded Sam's thighs until the guy stopped looking like he’d run over a squirrel. "Cause I fucking loved it."

 

 


	58. Chapter 58

DECEMBER 27

Sam was still asleep at 9:53 AM - seven minutes before the free grub would be gone.  
Dean brought him a big ass plate of eggs and sausage from the continental breakfast bar, because the guy sure as shit had earned food in bed.

Employing a balancing feat of epic proportion, Dean let himself back into the room carrying both plates. He crept across the floor to put the food on the table and snuck back into the bedroom section with the intention of watching Sam sleep for a while.

He was greeted, instead, by the sight of Sam on his stomach applying lube to himself.

“How are you not sore?”

Sam grinned over his shoulder. “I am.”

“So, we should take a break.”

“I don’t want a break.”

“I’m not going to fuck you if you’re sore.”

“What if I like it?” Sam’s middle finger sank into his hole.

“Then, you’re a masochistic fuck.”

“Are you judging me?”

Dean scratched his forehead and closed his eyes. There was no way to concentrate with this view. “People are probably looking for us. I can’t believe nobody has called.”

“Actually, I turned off our phones.”

“You what?” Dean grabbed his cell from the table. “You can’t do that kind of shit, Sam. You have a kid.”

“Who is with her mother and grandparents and aunt, and I’m with you, and I don’t want to be interrupted.”

Dean held his phone in his hand, thumb over the power button. One look at Sam’s body and he dropped it.

He shucked his clothes and crept onto the bed.  
Sam held himself open as Dean eased into him.

“Good?”

“God, yes.”

When he drew out and began to slide in again, Sam pressed his forehead to the bed and bit into the sheet with his eyes tight.

“Sam.”

“It’s good. Don’t stop.” He reached behind himself to grip Dean’s thigh. “Fuck me.”

“Jesus.” Dean did as he was told, each cautious thrust eliciting a fresh cry. “Does it hurt?”

“Don’t stop.”

Dean snaked his left hand around Sam’s hip. It was crushed into an awkward position, but he was able to grab hold of Sam’s massive shaft. With just a few strokes, Sam shuddered and shot his load onto the sheets. When his hole clenched Dean’s best intentions were drowned out by the pleasure. He pounded harder chasing his climax. At least that way he could finish and end the abuse.

Dean collapsed onto Sam’s back. A corner of Sam’s lip curled up and Dean licked his dimple. “Why the hell do you like that?”

“Don’t know. You hate it?”

Dean had been fucked while he was sore and it was no picnic. Then again, maybe it felt different if you actually liked the guy and wanted him to do it. He’d never know. “No more, okay? At least a couple days.”

Sam pouted like the world’s largest baby.

“Look. I’m starting to chafe, too. I don’t like when it hurts.”

Sam nodded and brought the tip of his nose to Dean’s. “Don’t pull out.”

“Then, I’m going to wake up hard again.”

Sam smirked. “Then I’ll suck you. Just stay with me.”

“You really are a slut, aren't you?”

“Only for you.” He smiled and his eyes slipped closed.

 

***

 

Once Dean delivered the toboggan to Garth at the top of the hill, Ruby sidled up next to him. “So, you two just disappear for a couple of days, and suddenly Sam is walking like an old man?”

“He fell down a flight of steps and busted his ass.” That was the story and having to repeat it to Ruby was lame when she’d heard it directly from Sam.

“The thing is, Dean, he’s crazy about you. It’s fun and games and endless fucking right now. Then, we go home, and he can hardly see straight for thinking about you.”

The tales of Ruby’s unabashed honesty were clearly true. “What are you suggesting?”

“I’m asking that you be upfront with him.”

“I have been. He knows it’s not… that it’s just…” Dean couldn't even say it out loud - pretend that it didn’t mean anything.

Every moment he’d ever spent with Sam was an oasis in his dry and wilted life. Ruby could think whatever the hell she wanted. Sam was the only good thing Dean had ever had, and he wasn’t going to apologize for it.

Sam talked with Garth while he pulled Luna up the hill like an overgrown huskie. The way he grinned over, they were probably discussing Dean.

“Just stop leading him on,” Ruby said. “You’re hurting him and it hurts me to watch it.”

Sam tugged Luna over and handed Ruby the reigns of the sled. “What are you two over here looking so serious about?”

“Tried to tell your ex what happened to your --”

“Yeah. She knows,” Sam said. “Steps vs. coccyx.”

“Yeah, right,” Garth called out.

“What’s cocksix, Daddy?”

“Daddy fell down and hurt his bottom,” Ruby said, taking Luna’s hand to help her stand.

“That’s why he’s walking funny?”

“Mmhm.”

“You should be more careful, young man.” Luna reached up and spanked Sam’s rump.

“Yes, ma’am.” Sam chuckled and fixed her cap. “I will in the future.”

At an opportune moment, when the others were all downhill, Sam grabbed Dean by both lapels and dragged him up close until only his toes were on the ground.

“You could take me behind that tree and work on my cocksix some more.”

“In the snow?”

“Why not?”

 


	59. Chapter 59

DECEMBER 28

Sam dipped his roller into the tray and started painting another row of Ws across the wall. “And she’s going to do visits?”

“God, no.” Dean stirred the paint with a flat, wooden stick. “You can’t leave that woman alone with children. Just speeches. Singer says her journey could be really eye opening for a lot of people. Wants her to go back to therapy.” Dean omitted the part where Singer had suggested it for him, too.

“Those two?”

“Who knows?” Whatever Angie and the old man were up to, Dean did not want to know.  
Every time Dean he’d checked in to postpone their lessons, Angie was harping in the background. From what he could tell they’d become as inseparable as he and Sam in the few days since Christmas. “I’m keeping out of it.”

Sam chuckled. “Can’t say I blame you.”

“So, you have a buyer?” Dean changed the subject before his mind could wander to deep into Singer with Angela territory.

“Realtor has a couple of bites.”

“So, you’re really going to do this?”

“I didn’t think I would, but I like it down there. And you were right.”

“Always am.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “I need to be near Luna.”

Dean checked his buzzing phone and smiled at the message.

“Who’s that?”

“Garth approves.” Dean turned the screen to show the text.

GF: Sam (equal sign and two thumbs up emojis)

Sam smiled. “Good to know. He seems like a nice guy.”

“Yeah. He’s alright. Pain in the ass, but he’s got my back.” Dean went back to taping the edges of newspaper along the floor. “You making friends down there?”

“Never had a lot of friends.”

Dean could relate. People were strange. It was easy to hustle and manipulate, hard to make connections. One thing he could say about his time in Kansas, it may have led to the end of his life, but he’d met some real people and got to feel like one himself for a while.

He stood with hands on his hips, surveying the room. “Bunch of memories in this place.”

Sam smiled over his shoulder. “I lived here for two years. With an absolute madman who is becoming kind of a well balanced woman, if I’m not mistaken.”

“It’s not like the crazy was in her dick. Angie’s still batshit, but she’s getting better.”

Sam sighed and nodded regarding the room like an exhibit in the museum of his life.

“I think we should fuck here, one last time.”

The roller dropped into the bucket and Sam presented himself front and center. “How do you want me?”

Dean looked about the place, trying to narrow it down to one answer. “Face down on our table.”

As Sam turned toward the dining room like a well-trained cadet, Dean asked, “What do you want?”

Sam froze, then melted. He took Dean’s neck between his warm hands, thumb tracing his jaw, lips, cheekbones while his eyes studied like he belonged in a curator’s collection. The word was audible, brewing behind his teeth before he ever spoke it.

“So--” Sam bit his lip and pressed the tips of his fingers into the back of Dean’s neck.

As if he’d found a button, Dean’s head lolled forward, a long sigh spilling from his lips.

“How can a kid be so tense?”

 _How can a man be so gentle?_  
Dean didn’t speak those words or any others.

Sam went to his knees, lifted the hem of Dean’s shirt and dropped a kiss on Dean’s navel before dipping his tongue inside. Dean hissed and jumped back, instinctively.

Sam chuckled and did it again. “You like that?”

“It’s weird.”

“You think that’s weird?” He latched on like a lamprey.

“Whoa!” Dean shrank away and shoved him back, laughing.

He plucked a fleck of Robin’s Egg from Sam’s hair and hazel eyes gazed up at him like he was offering a sacrament.

“You got…” Dean showed him the bit of paint before he flicked it to the floor. “What?”

“Off.”

Dean raised his arms to comply as Sam stood and pulled off his shirt.

Fingers splayed, blazing a trail from Dean’s shoulder to his grey sweats. Sam popped the elastic, but didn't try to lower them. He palmed Dean’s dick over the fabric and squeezed an ass cheek with the other hand. “What I want?”

Dean shook his head without intending to.

Sam sat on the floor and pulled him up to straddle his lap. He pressed his face to the rift in the center of Dean’s chest, stubble scraping over a pert nipple before lapping it better. His arms doubled around Dean’s waist, as he latched on and sucked hard until Dean whimpered, his hips bucking towards Sam’s chest, angling to slide his ass over Sam’s boner.

“Stand up,” Sam commanded.

Dean stood again and Sam peeled away his pants and shorts. He stepped out of them and watched Sam’s hand kneading himself.

“Turn around.”

Dean did what he was told and tried not to shiver at the authority in Sam’s voice. His obedience was rewarded with a soft pat on one of his ass cheeks, then the other. He glanced over his shoulder. Sam’s hand was down his pants now, moving slowly over his own shaft as he petted Dean’s lower back and urged him to bend forward.

“Jesus Christ.”

Hands on his knees, Dean braced himself. He was wide open in Sam’s face. Would let this happen, whatever it was going to be. Let Sam have his way. Give up control, for a little while. Not a problem.

Sam’s hand abandoned Dean’s skin, only to return with a spit-slicked thumb to circle and ply against his hole. He made no indication that he wanted inside - only massaged and slip-slid until Dean was nearly begging for it.

“Do you like this?”

“Yes.” A drop of sweat fell from his nose and he shut his eyes against the salty sting.

“And this?” A bit of pressure: threat, promise, every intention of entering without breaking.

“Sam.”

“Do you like it?”

“Fuck.” Dean couldn’t admit it.

He didn't even want to like it. Buck naked, ass up, on the tip of Sam’s thumb like Jack Horner’s fucking plum. “Yes,” he answered with a shudder.

Breath bating, waiting. Hating himself for wanting. So bad.

Sam spun him until they were facing again, pulled Dean back onto his lap. He had shed his pants and the Beast was free to slide, huge, rigid and hot against Dean’s wood.

Sam wrapped one of his huge palms around both. Generally, Dean was more than satisfied with what nature had given him. He only had a second’s time to feel small in the shadow of that thing before Sam spat over their crowns and began to stroke them together.

When he leaned forward, and for a moment, Dean thought he was going to try to take them both into his mouth. Instead, he pursed his lips and blew a cool breath over both of their feverish skin. Dean shivered at a fresh crop of goosebumps.

Sam let go and used both hands to pin Dean’s wrists behind his back. “Okay?”

Dean nodded. Sam held him easily with one hand, closing the other around Dean’s throat, eyes piercing and dark. “Is this okay for you?”

“Yeah,” Dean breathed.

“You have to tell me if--”

“It’s good, Sam.”

“Yeah?” Sam looked up at him with cautious pride.

“Fuck, yeah.”

The man beneath him  
That was the wrong way to think of it.  
Dean’s was elevated by his position in Sam’s lap, but his hands were bound behind him, his jugular pounding away under Sam’s thumb.

This man was a mountain. He could literally do anything to Dean that he wanted. Dean could fight and would give him a run for his money and something to remember him by, but there was no way he was any real match for Sam. And Sam was the first guy he’d ever been with where that thought didn’t unnerve or enrage him. It made him moan and purr Sam’s name like a bitchcat in heat.

That sound of his own voice, high and breathy snapped Dean out of his reverie. He squirmed, just a little and Sam let him go with a tap to his thigh. He pulled Dean flush against his chest and tucked back his dick.

This was it. Time to take Sam’s dick, like a big boy.

Sam parted Dean’s cheeks and slid between them, without impaling. Dean relaxed and let the hand on his neck draw him down into an open-mouthed kiss.

Sam pressed his hips up in small, impossibly patient waves. He pulled away from Dean’s lips to spit in his hand before he closed it around Dean’s rod, grabbing hipbone like a handle. Jerking wildly with both hands he stripped Dean’s cock and dragged him back and forth over his dick.

Heat, friction, sweat and, “Sam, Fuck. Fuck, Sam.”

“Is it okay?”

Dean’s mouth fell open but only short, ragged breaths escaped. His arms hung at his sides for a moment, then he dug his fingers into Sam’s shoulders.

“Dean.”

He might as well have said ‘come.’ Might as well have commanded it. Electricty surged at the base of Dean’s spine, his body tensed and then he exploded over Sam’s hand, against his chest. Shouting words that might have been “Sam” or any of the other names for God.

“I’m gonna…” Sam’s hands dropped to Dean’s ass, pressing him tighter as he rocked Dean’s body.

He roared, his hips levitated from the floor, taking Dean to the air with him before he settled again with sounds like sobs. “Jesus, Dean.”

Flushed face on Sam’s shoulder, huffing out a breath as strong, warm hands slid up and down his back. Soft lips rolled Dean’s earlobe and a tender voice murmured that Dean was, “So good.”

 

***

 

Sam had never been in a Fuddruckers before, but there he sat, watching Dean squirt ketchup onto some girl’s hot dog.

Garth's sharp elbow dug into his arm. “I’m not sure he even knows he’s doing it. Dude’s default setting is Auto-Flirt.”

Sam smiled at the terminology; it fit Dean perfectly. “I know. It’s taken some getting used to.”

The needle neck kid grinned back at him and popped a fry into his mouth. “I like you two together.”

“Dean told me.”

So now Sam was having this ‘come to Jesus’ moment with a teenager.

It was easy to forget that Dean was, too. A horny, impetuous teenager who liked Sam, but couldn’t stop liking girls, too. He returned Garth’s guileless smile. “I’m glad. He thinks highly of you.”

Sam would have given anything in high school for even one friend he could confide in.

“I’m kind of a male faghag. Not sure when that started.”

“Dean, kind of, happens to people.” Sam resisted the temptation to ask if this kid was attracted to him.

It didn’t matter. Who could blame him, if he was?

“Yeah. I guess you're right.” Garth sighed, answering the unasked question. “You know, he’s never had anything even resembling a boyfriend or girlfriend before. With you, it’s special. I’m just glad he has something solid to hold on to, with everything that's going on.”

“Everything, such as…..”

“You know, with his…” Garth’s motor mouth clamped down like someone had thrown a wrench between his pistons. “Whoa. You’re a Winchester. That means… Shit. You guys are --”

Garth was stone-still when Dean joined them at the table.

“New friend?” Sam asked, nodding at Dean’s condiment companion.

“Tammi. She’s a nurse’s assistant. And she does, in fact, own a stethoscope.” He grinned and dragged a sip through his straw. One look at Sam’s face and the smile slid from his lips. “Hey, you’re not… You know I was just… It’s just a game, like…”

“Yeah. I know. Tic Tac Toe.” Sam sucked down a tomato and found himself grinning as Dean chuckled at his joke.

“What’s with him?” Dean nodded at Garth.

“Not sure. He was picking out His and His towels and then he had some kind of meltdown.”

Garth blinked between the two of them without saying another word.


	60. Chapter 60

DECEMBER 29

Dean plopped on the floor, kicking and wrestling to get out of the hideous, puffy pants. Sam knelt in front of him, waiting until Dean stopped struggling long enough to let him open the Velcro on the boots. He freed Dean’s feet first and then his legs from the ski pants. Then he peeled down the thermal underwear.

Stripping away the crazy-looking moon socks, Sam held Dean’s foot in his hand and pressed his lips to the sole. “Did you enjoy that?”

“Butt hurts, but otherwise less lame than expected.”

“Come here.”

Suspicious, Dean cocked his head, but he crawled up to suck the smirk off Sam’s face. Sam, in turn, knocked Dean onto his stomach over his lap as if to spank him. Before Dean could complain, Sam was massaging his ass. “Better?”

“Actually, that’s not bad.” Dean lay with his cheek on his folded arms and closed his eyes.

“I have to ask you something.”

“All right.”

“Why won’t you tell me what’s going on with you?” Sam’s fingers prodded and probed, like he would knead the truth out of him.

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t even know.” The magic hands stopped. “Something with you, Garth and -- Is there a reason you can trust him, but not me?”

Dean wiped a hand over his forehead and sat up on his knees to look Sam in the eye. Garth Fitzgerald with his fucking mouth the size of Texas. “I didn’t tell him shit, Sam. Garth ... got his information somewhere else.”

“What information, Dean?” Sam wiped his hair from his face. “This has never been just sex to me. I don't just want to fuck you; I want to be with you. I want all of you. If something is going on with you, I want to know about it. Love is … It’s not supposed to be complicated. It’s supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to feel good. If we can't make that happen then…”

“You saying you don’t want to do this anymore?”

“No. That’s not what ... I want to do it right.” Sam cupped Dean’s face. “Please, talk to me.”

A quiet urge to push away tugged at Dean’s mind. A louder part of him compelled him to speak, “You know Singer?”

Sam nodded. He would either think Dean had lost his mind or run for the hills or both. But he had asked for this

“He’s not just a social worker.”

 

***

 

Dean sat on the floor at the foot of Garth's bed running his finger over every single word of a 700 page volume on djinn. Garth was on the bed, taking notes on the reverse brewing of potions and drafts.

“This is going to sound a little crazy, but … what if you just say yes?” Garth said. “I mean, you get to keep everything. Anybody who lets you recruit them for Hell probably belongs there, right?”

“You think I should work for the devil because I've been fucking my brother.”

Garth closed his book. “Can't believe I didn't see it. I guess, Jody doesn't think of Sam that way. She just generally hates him for taking you from her.”

“What?” Dean looked up at him for the first time.

“Like, you started seeing Sam and now you're not her kid anymore.”

“I was never her kid.” Dean shut his book and leaped to his feet, pacing like a caged tiger.

“Don't get mad at me. I'm just telling you how she thinks.” Garth picked a piece of lint from his sock rather than look at Dean. “You know, Singer is reaching out to angels for help?”

“Angels? Really?” Dean’s brow flicked. “He said he'd try everything.”

“They're not going to be on board with this, Dean.”

Garth was probably right. “Then, fuck em.”

“Yeah. No," he said. "It's wrong, dude. You know that, right?”

“Why?”

Garth was the voice of reason. Everyone in their right mind would say Dean was insane, disgusting and depraved.

“It just is.” The weakness of Garth’s argument deflated it until he sighed. “What are you even doing here? I thought Sam didn't leave until the 3rd.”

“He had something to do.” Dean tossed a Nerf dart at the board, nailing the bullseye.

“Other than you?”

The next foam dart, Dean hurled at Garth’s head.


	61. Chapter 61

 

DECEMBER 31

 

Val accepted the bottle of champagne as an entrance fee and made space for Sam to enter the apartment. 

Charlie was in the middle of a conversation, but spread her arms and dragged him into a bear hug. Sam had to bend at the waist to embrace her.

“That belong to you?” 

Sam followed the direction of her gesture. He’d had finishing touches to make and didn’t want Dean in the hotel room, so they’d agreed to meet at Charlie’s. There he was, in a corner nodding at some guy with platinum blond hair and a Samoan sleeve tattoo. Whatever they were talking about, there was no good reason for him to feel up Dean’s arm or chest every 15 seconds.  

“People person,” Sam said. 

Charlie nodded. “Clearly.” 

Dean made no motion to stop the surfer’s hand from sliding down his forearm. 

“Ellory has strict orders to keep it PG,” Charlie assured. 

It looked like Ellory’s orders were to rub Dean’s back.  

“I need to talk to you about something.” 

Charlie ushered Sam to an open window where he took a deep breath of the fresh, cool air. “Shoot, kid.” 

Sam would have loved to unload the nightmare Dean had poured out on him the previous night. None of it made any sense and he’d feared for Dean’s sanity through most of it until they drive to Singer’s house. The old man corroborated every detail: demons and blood deals and concepts that did not fit into Sam’s scientific mind. He pored over Singer’s books and proclaimed the man a dangerous charlatan. Sam and Dean had argued all the way back to the hotel, and they'd made up until dawn without actually reaching an agreement.

If Dean wanted to be part of this 'demon hunting' madness it wasn't any worse than D&D and clearly a distraction he needed.

Sam reached into his jacket and showed Charlie the ring box that had been burning a hole in an interior pocket since for the last 24 hours.  

“Jesus.” She looked about nervously, covering it with her palm as if it was a grenade. 

Her head tilted with what could have been understanding or sympathy. “He’s still in high school, for Christ sakes, Sam.” 

“I told him about the baby. That we could--” 

“Why? Why would you tell him something like that.” She dropped her face into her palm. “Val doesn’t even like children. We were joking, Sam.” 

“I wasn’t.” 

“You’re really taking this a little far. Maybe in five or ten years, if ever and probably not. Oh, Sam.” She touched his face with unmistakable pity. “I’m totally rooting for you two, but you need to think this through very carefully. Dean is a kid. He’s not ready for all this. Sudden moves and you’re going to scare him off. ” 

Charlie patted Sam’s shoulder and left him alone with his fresh air.  

A few people sidled up and tried to include him in predictions for the new year. One woman brought him a drink and a smile which he respectively declined and did not reciprocate.  

Sam didn’t look for or watch Dean. He sat at the window, following Charlie’s advice, thinking things through carefully. 

For a while. 

When he did scan the room, Dean was still chatting with the same West Coast speed dealer-looking guy. What was with Charlie’s friends? Most of them looked like they’d crawled out of the sewer for this gathering.  

Ellory. Did he know how old Dean was? They were shoulder to shoulder in a corner, Dean’s head tilted forward as he listened. 

Someone buzzed in Sam’s ear, asking about the time. He shrugged and went back to gazing out of his window. He’d thought it through. There were only two possible outcomes. Dean could say yes or he could say no. 

A fork clinked against a glass and Charlie announced that it was five minutes before midnight. 

Dean sat alone on the sofa with a half-empty glass. His elbow rested on his knee, knuckles against his mouth, eyes on Sam. Ellory had finally vanished. The moment Sam met his gaze, Dean stood and joined him.  

“Anything interesting going on out there?” 

Sam pointed. “Just saw a cat.”  

Dean chuckled and pressed himself against Sam’s back, face warm between his shoulder blades, arms closing around Sam’s chest. 

“Nice looking guy,” Sam said around a slight twinge of fear.  

“What? The Kiwi?” Dean scoffed. “Dude never shut up. I was waiting for you to come rescue me.” 

“If you wanted to… You know, go somewhere with him…” 

“Not right now.” 

“Because I don’t ever want to do that, but if you do…” Sam forced the words over his dry tongue. “I want you to be happy. And if that makes you happy…” 

“What's going on with you?” Dean stepped back to make space for Sam to turn and face him.  

“I'm … trying to be less heteronormative.” 

“What does that even mean? Is that an SAT word?” 

Sam chuckled, a slight shiver played over his skin. “No. It means ... I'm not trying to own you or change you. I want you to understand that.” 

“Yeah, okay.” 

He held the amulet in his palm. “And you don’t have to wear this if you don’t like it?” 

“I love it, Sam.” 

Sam clasped his hands at the base of Dean’s back. “Listen… I know I can live without you. But I don’t want to.” 

Someone called out, “Five.”  

The crowd erupted in a jubilant countdown. 

Sam inhaled the spicy mulled wine on Dean’s breath as he joined in. “Three. Two. 

“One,” Sam said and kissed his boy with cautious, chaste devotion. 

Kazoos sounded, streamers soared and confetti fell in their hair. Sam saw only emerald eyes. Dean looked up at him, reflecting the desire and abandoned logic that made the spark between them rage into wildfire. 

A hand fell on his back. Charlie leaned up and Sam lowered his head to hear what she had to say. “Go home, fuck the shit out of him, and do it. Then call and tell me everything.” 

 

JANUARY 1

 

Sam let the door slip shut and turned the lock. He loomed behind Dean, hot hands hovering over tense shoulders. Dean closed his eyes and sank into the heat of Sam so near, not yet daring to touch.  

He unzipped his jacket and Sam slid the leather free from Dean’s shoulders, down his arms and over his hands. One of his palms covered the back of Dean’s skull and urged him to look at the floor. A kiss and warm breath on his nape.  

An arm curled tight around his ribs. Sam’s rigid arousal an outline against Dean’s back, lighting up his veins like kerosene. 

“I’m going to run to the bathroom,” Sam whispered and slipped away.  

The balcony door scraped open. Dean stepped out and gripped the freezing railing with both hands. Filling his lungs with icy air calmed him a little more. What the hell was he freaking out about? This was as safe as he was ever going to get. 

The door slid open and shut and then Sam was behind him again, closer than before. Or was it that his warmth was even more vivid against the cold? His wood certainly hadn’t flagged. If anything it was more rigid as his hand clamped onto Dean’s hip so he could meld them flush. 

“I’m starting to have the feeling, lately, that you want to fuck me.” 

“I’d love to be inside of you.” 

“Didn't know you were into that.” 

“I'm into you.” Sam breathed the words into his shoulder. 

“You mean all this time, that's what you wanted and --” 

“I’ve loved everything we've done so far.” Sam slid his arm around Dean’s waist. “And there are other things I enjoy, as well.” 

“You want to top me.” 

“I don't see it like that,” Sam said, dropping a kiss on his ear. “Top and bottom makes it sound like there's some kind of hierarchy. As if --” 

“I know what it means. It's hard not to feel that way when you're being hammered, Sam.” 

“And sometimes that's okay. I mean, when you take charge like that ... I love it. My whole body comes alive. I can let go and ... Don't get me wrong, I love that. But it's not the only dynamic. Yin and yang is not about getting hammered. It's about balance. Keeping each other honest... and sane.” 

Dean nodded. “So, you want to fuck me.” 

Sam laughed and hugged him close. “Yeah, kid. I do. I want to feel you. Be with you, in every possible way. Do you want that?” 

His dick straining against his zipper gave one answer while his asshole clenched shut. Dean’s mouth split the difference, “Okay.” 

“Beg me.” 

Dean laughed and nudged Sam with the intention of walking away.  

Sam didn’t budge. “I need to know you want it.” 

“What if I don't?”

“Then we don't do it.” 

“Do you have anything to drink?” 

“No.” Sam stepped nearer and folded both arms around him. “I want you with me tonight.”

Sam was unlike anyone else he’d ever been with. With the girls, Dean was the protector. With the exception of Jo, who would kick ass or die trying to save him. Dean had been in other guys’ arms, but it never made him feel safe. It was the opposite usually. Even when the other guy wasn’t violent or unpleasant he was a possession or a toy.  

With Sam, he was smaller but never afraid. If anything, he was braver. Sam cocooned him. With Sam, Dean was more than safe. He was home.  

It was cheesy and chick-flicky and he could dive from the balcony for thinking it. He squirmed and Sam was on the verge of backing off when Dean found himself gripping the front of his shirt, breathing in his scent, bathing in his warmth. “Sam, would you please…” 

Heat swept the words and his breath away.  

Sam kissed his temple. So soft. Tender, like only Sam could be. Not coercing. Not expecting. Just kindness.  

“Fuck me.” 

Sam didn’t move. Just kept holding him, as if he hadn’t heard. 

It wasn’t too late to push away, call Sam a bitch, make some joke. “Sam, please.”  

Still no change. Just firm arms around him. Dean drew his in and folded them between their chests. He lowered his forehead to Sam's shoulder, like a turtle disappearing into its shell. The wind couldn’t even touch him with Sam shielding him.  

“Sam, would you please fuck me?” Dean closed his eyes. “Would you... I want... I want you inside of me, please.” 

Was there something more he should be saying? Did he have to get on his hands and knees?

Sam pulled back. A thumb wiped over the tears on one cheek and kissed the trail on the other. 

“I love you.” 

An explosion went off in the center of Dean’s chest. Loud heat, painful and perilous. 

“Can you open your eyes?”

It took a moment. Even then, Dean looked past Sam, through the balcony door, into the hotel room. Sam waited until he was ready to meet his eyes. Dean’s were still blurry and leaking. He shook his head and folded his lips between his teeth. Sweet humiliation. 

Sam searched his face as if he was looking for the next line. “Why are you crying?” 

“I don't know.” That was true and false. 

And speaking was a mistake. It let through a fucking sob. He shoved Sam, winning some space for himself so he could wipe snot from his nose with back of his arm.

He was fucking sniveling.

Sam took the back of his neck in one hand, cupped his ear with the other and leaned down to gift a soft kiss. “We don't have to do that. I'm sorry I even brought it up.”

“No. I want to. I do. I want you to fuck me, Sam. I want you to --” 

“I don't need that. Ever.”

“I do.” Dean clawed at Sam’s belt. “I need it. Right fucking now.” 

Sam dragged him back into the room, stumbling as Dean tugged at his zipper. Once the door slid shut, Sam pressed him against it. “Are you crazy?” 

“I want you, man.” 

“You mean, you want to freeze your nuts off.” Sam grinned. “You're sure?” 

“I'm fucking sure.” Dean brought Sam's hand to his hard dick: sure and ready.

Sam gave him a squeeze and said, “Wait right here.” 

Dean palmed himself as Sam stepped away. He started to open his pants but stopped himself with a shaky grin. Sam liked to undress him. 

When he returned naked with a tube in one hand and slowly working himself with the other, he and his dick appeared to have grown.

Sam smirked like he’d heard Dean’s gears turning. “Still sure?” 

“I can take you.” It would be the largest he’d ever had and it had been a fucking long time, but Dean was always up for a challenge.

Sam loosened Dean’s pants and took both rods in hand. Dean’s head cracked back against the glass, sounding worse than it felt. Still, Sam slid his palm behind to cushion it. 

Dean clutched rock-solid pecs, arched his hips into Sam’s hand. “Yeah.” 

Sam let him go too soon, though. Patient fingers unfastened each button on his shirt and propped it open. Sam’s hand smoothed over his chest, eyes smoldering with intent.  

"Fuck." Dean swooned and pressed his palms to the glass behind him. 

Sam went to his knees, pressed worshipful kisses to that spot between navel and hip bone before latching on and sucking like he was extracting marrow. Dean gripped his skull with one hand, hips jutting forward of their own accord.

"Sam."  

Still suckling, Sam helped Dean out of his pants and his dick slid against the side of Sam’s neck into his hair. Mesmerized, he drew back and did it again. Sam grinned up at him, impish. He lifted Dean’s shaft, kissed the base and suckled his balls.  

“Jesus Christ, Sam.” 

He slipped his lips along the side, reaching the head, and taking the whole thing into his mouth in one, smooth motion. 

“Oh, God.” Dean’s body trembled against the glass door with the effort of remaining upright. 

Sam stilled his hips with his hands and bobbed fast and sloppy, filthy slurping sounds making Dean’s toes curl. Sam’s cheeks hollowed and filled. Dean wrapped a hand under his jaw and held him still so he could fuck up into his incredible, hot mouth. Sam moaned but didn’t fight, not even when his nose was ground into Dean’s pubes. He gripped both of Dean's thighs, moaned and took it.  

Dean let him go, wiped hair back from his sweaty forehead as Sam cleared tears from his cheek. He drew in a breath and gave a slight nod. Dean slammed into him, vicious, like only an asshole fucks anything animate.

He pulled all the way out. "I'm sorry." 

"Why? I love it. You know that." He took Dean again, balls deep, and gripped his ass to drag him closer.

Dean stilled for a moment before he let loose, sharp whips of his hips. Sam opened his mouth and tried to take him deeper, gagging, pulling back for a second before making himself choke again. Pleasure washed over Dean in ripples as Sam took him all the way and swallowed around the tip of his dick.

“Fuck, Sam. Aw, God.”  

Just as his balls tightened in Sam's fingers, that tight, wet warmth was gone. Dean was about to protest when Sam leaned his head to the side, offering himself and gazing up in anticipation. 

Dean jerked furiously, quaking, gasping, straining until he erupted, rumbling like an avalanche as rope after rope spurted thick onto Sam's shoulder, his neck, and in his beautiful hair.  

Dean breathed through an aftershock and admired his handiwork. 

“You like that?” 

Dean ran a finger through the rapidly cooling cum on Sam’s chest. Sam opened to receive, curling his tongue around Dean’s essence and curving his lips into a smirk. Dean stroked back his hair with one hand, then with both, rubbing in what was left of his sticky mess. He leaned forward to kiss Sam’s smile. 

When the man climbed to his feet, he’d grown again. A foot taller, his chest wider. Dean couldn’t even look at that dick. Not at first. He had to get his head right. 

The lube dangled from one hand. Sam stroked his wood with purpose, rubbing his thumb over the top with every pass. He bit his lower lip, gazing down at Dean. He cast a shadow simply because of where the lamp was situated in the room. “You'll tell me to stop.” 

Dean shook his head, swearing to himself to take it, no matter what. 

“If you want me to.” 

Sam wouldn’t be happy unless Dean agreed, so he nodded and started to turn his back - his ass - over.  

“I want to see your face. And I want you on the bed.” An arm around Dean’s waist drew him close. “May I?”

Dean tensed. “Nothing wrong with my legs.”

“I know.” 

“I'm not a girl, Sam.” 

“I don't want a girl.” 

Dean rolled his eyes and sucked his teeth before he rested his hands on Sam's shoulders. In for a penny.

Sam put the lube between his own teeth, bent slightly with a hand under each of Dean's ass cheeks and lifted him to his chest. "Okay?"  

Dean took the tube from his mouth. “This is ridiculous,” he said, without meeting Sam's eyes.  

“If you hate it, I can put you down.” 

“Can we just fast forward through this part?” 

Sam laughed and kissed him, carrying Dean as if he weighed nothing, which was bullshit, because Dean was pushing six feet, hard, with both hands, and had been pumping iron on the regular for the last 4 years.

What-thefuck-ever. He was about to get pounded, he could be carried.

He crooked his elbows around Sam's neck and let it happen. 

Dean braced himself to be dropped onto the mattress like dead weight. When that didn't happen, he tried to straighten his legs to climb down, but Sam wouldn’t let him go. He was too busy staring. 

“What?” 

“I love you.” 

“You said that.” 

“Yeah, I know. I'm just ... kind of a little...” 

“Sam, you're always a little…”  

“Yeah.” Sam lowered Dean to the bed and kissed him so softly it hurt.  

He rolled Dean onto his stomach and stared until Dean asked, “You need some pointers?” 

Sam chuckled and kissed Dean’s left cheek, then the right, breathing warm on Dean’s entrance before his tongue slid a hot and wet stripe from balls to the base of his back. Dean's bones were melting and all he could do was shiver and moan at the slurping and spearing at his hole. Reaching back, he wrapped a hand around Sam's skull and held him in place for a moment, impaled on Sam's thick tongue and gasping like a wanton whore.

Finally, Sam rolled Dean onto his back and leaned forward to give him a taste of himself - filthy-sweet. The finger barely burned on entry. Still, Dean pressed his cheek against the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“Relax, Dean.”  

His asshole clenched and tried to expel Sam. Out, not in. Stuff is meant to come out of there, not the other way around. 

“Do you want me to stop?” 

Dean shook his head. Sam went on kissing him slow, fucking him gently with one finger until the burn melted into a pleasant, dragging sensation. Dean nodded that he was ready for another. 

He hugged his arms under his knees, soles of his feet rested on Sam's chest. When the finger slipped out, he whined a little at the loss. Sam replenished the lube and added a second, all the while watching Dean’s face for any change. When he went to add the third, Dean grabbed his wrist. 

Sam paused. "Too much?" 

"Go slow." 

Minutes later, he'd barely gotten the fingertips in. His other hand cupped Dean’s cheek, the thumb caressing his cheekbone. Dean grabbed his dick and said, "Faster than that." 

He turned his head aside, still panting rhythmically along to the push and pull of Sam's hand.  

“That good?” 

It was full and intense. And Sam. It was Sam. 

Dean nodded, stroked himself and kept his eyes shut because he was on the cusp of crying again. It was too good. 

“Are you ready?”  

Dean opened his eyes. “If I asked you to stop…” 

Sam swallowed and withdrew his hand. Dean moaned, immediately regretting the test. Sam put his feet on the floor, gripping his dick. His lip trembled. "Is it alright if I come on you?" 

"Come in me." 

"What?" Sam asked, a tear slipping from his confused eyes. 

Dean reached for his arm. “I'm sorry. I was being a jerk. I want you inside me now. I'm ready.”  

Sam reeled for a moment. Then he nodded and climbed back onto the bed. Dean held his thighs again and his breath. It was just like diving. He willed himself to inhale. As Sam pressed against his hole, he let his lungs deflate. 

“Dean." Sam held his gaze. 

Hands wide and tender beneath his back, the initial sting diminished and blossomed into a wave of ecstasy as Dean came all over himself. Sam slid in, one long languid push. Dean sputtered and clutched his arms. Sam's hips stuttered. He groaned, all the muscles in his back and arms and chest spasming. 

“Fuck. That was… Did you just come?” 

Sam nodded and arched his back to see Dean's face. He was ridiculously heavy, but Dean closed his ankles around him when he started to move away. 

“I'm not crushing you?” Sam dropped himself back down. “God, that was…”

“Yeah.” 

 

***

  

Sam fell asleep on Dean’s chest with fingers brushing from his hairline down over the swell of his ass. All Dean could take were shallow breaths with Sam’s weight securing him to the bed. He smiled to himself and kept his hands in motion, touching every inch he could reach until sleep took him, too. 

Dean awoke with his ass full again.  

“Is it okay?” 

Dean tilted his hips. “Yeah. Fuck me.” 

Sam drew back until he’d nearly pulled out so that he could dribble a fresh stream of lube between them. He licked his lips. “You want me to fuck you, Dean?” 

Dean nodded. The first thrust drove his eyes into the back of his skull as if they were trying to look down inside of him and see what the hell had just happened. "Holy." 

"You okay?" 

"Yeah." He breathed the word and clutched the sheets. 

Dean had only glimpsed this relentless, savage side of Sam: in the bar fight, when he was defending Dean against Castiel. This was not the Sam he was used to. His hips pistoned, slammed like he was driving a nail. So hard that Dean was knocked up the bed with each plunge. When his skull knocked against the headboard, Sam slipped his hands under Dean’s back and hooked them over his shoulders to hold him in place. 

Dean panted in time with the onslaught, ripped the sheets from under the corners of the mattress. His toes curled, mouth fell open, body coiled in on itself as Sam pounded him without showing any sign of tiring or slowing. 

“Oh, my fucking God.” Dean’s head tilted back, arched to the side, thrashed back and forth as his fingers clutched the air like he was having a seizure. 

Sam's hands closed around his wrists and locked them to the bed at his sides. His mouth latched onto Dean’s neck. His stomach mashed against Dean's dick, pressure and friction as intense and perfect as the cock filling and obliterating him. Balls tightened, lightning crashed in his gut and Dean shouted his release. 

Sam howled, drove in to the hilt, swiveled his hips and came apart. His body twitched for a full minute after. 

Dean exhaled. “Fuck.”  

“You okay?” 

He was alive. It remained to be seen if he could still walk right. 

They lay there forever, recovering together before Dean could feel it coming. “Hop up. Come on, let me up.” 

Sam rolled aside so he could flee the bed, wiping his flooding cheeks as he rushed to the bathroom. 

Dean sat on the toilet with Sam's come bubbling inside and then rushing out of him. Buried his face in his hands and wept like a fucking girl without fully knowing why. 

Once he'd emptied himself out, showered, toweled off, styled his hair with his fingers and practiced cool faces in the mirror for a few minutes, he returned to the room.  

Sam was laying on his side of the bed with his face tight with worry. Dean slid into bed beside him. “I’m fine, so don’t ask.” 

Sam smiled and nuzzled his cheek. “Dean. I love you." 

“Yeah, I love you, too.” 

The world kept spinning.  

Sam gawked at him for a full minute before his smile opened like sunshine. 

“What, did you not know that?” 

“You just never said it.” 

“Is there, like, a schedule for when I need to say it?”  

Sam tweaked his ribs. “No. It’s just nice to hear it.” 

Dean rolled onto his side and tossed a thigh over Sam’s hip. “Yeah. It is.” 

 

***

 

With tongue, lips and fingers, Sam worshiped every inch of his lover. Baptized and whispered his desire, blew his devotion over him with cool and warm breaths. So there could be no confusion. So Dean could never doubt it.  

Sam memorized the salt of his skin, musk between his joints, the contour of every firm plane, his sighs. The worst possible outcome of what he was about to do was that Dean would never talk to him again and this would be the last time.  

The boy opened his eyes. Sam told him to sleep, although he wanted him awake. Alert for every moment of this. Receiving every kiss. Breathing the lavender. Soaring with Elgar’s cello concerto: the first music they’d ever listened to together. 

 _Every cell of you, I love. From your soles to your precious freckled nose. Please. Have me. God, please. Let him say yes._  

Dean lay still, receptive, skin prickled with goosebumps for a while. Then, he raised his hips and begged. Sam would suck him later. Every day, if Dean would let him.  

He scratched and caressed Dean’s scalp until he purred. It was now or never. "I think you should marry me."  

"Do you now?" He grinned.  

Sam drew the black velvet box from beneath the pillow and placed it directly over Dean’s heart. 

Sam’s pulsed stopped, but that hardly mattered. Time was standing still. "You want to say something?"  

Dean’s muscles tensed. Sam picked up the box and held it in the center of his hand. He sang out the whole speech he’d practiced and ended with, “Would you please do me the honor --” 

Dean shoved him aside and bolted for the bathroom, again. Sam studied the thing in his hand. Dean hadn’t even looked at the ring.  

He took another eternity in there while Sam lay in waiting with his arm over his eyes and his heart in his mouth. Then, he stood and paced, reciting to himself that he could survive this. He would continue to breathe if Dean said No. Life would go on. He would go back to Florida and take care of his child and his garden and his huge, empty house with a huge, empty heart. He was standing in the middle of the floor when Dean came from the bathroom with a towel around his waist.  

It was too soon. Wrong time, wrong place and most likely, Dean was the kind of person who never wanted to be tied down or to make any promises. He wasn’t like Sam. Didn’t need that security blanket. Didn’t want it. Sam should have known before he put either of them in this position. 

Sam’s cold skin squeezed his roiling insides too tight. The ring box shrank, like a lump of coal in his curling fist. Six feet of carpet stretched out like a million miles of barren slate. 

Dean’s hand rose, dividing the space between them. “Can I see that?” 

Sam’s heart contracted and lurched as the kid opened the box. He held the 8mm gunmetal band between thumb and forefinger.  

“What, no diamond?” 

Sam chuckled, still too on edge to speak.  

“You know, you get married a lot.” 

“This is the only one that counts.”

Dean handed back the ring and held his fingers splayed. “This hand, right?”

 


	62. Chapter 62

This has to be done. Sam has put it off long enough.

“Hey!” Cole doesn’t waste time canceling his enthusiasm. “I been dying to hear from you. It’s been, what, three weeks. I would have called myself, but I figured you and Luna needed some time to get settled back in.”

Sam clears his throat. “Did you have a nice holiday?”

“When we getting together?”

If Cole isn't going to mince words, Sam should get to the point, too. He swallows the strange cocktail of guilt and excitement at saying this to someone other than Charlie. “I proposed; he said yes.”

The silence lasts long enough that Sam checks his screen to be sure they’re still connected. “Cole?”

“Yeah. Hey. That’s uh … unexpected.”

“I swear, I didn't mean to lead you on.”

“No. Hey. I love a happy ending. Congratulations, Sam.”

“Thank you.” Sam had considered inviting him to the wedding, but he’s not even sure he wants Ruby there - or anyone who hasn’t been behind them all the way.

“Does that mean --”

“I’m a one prince kind of guy, Cole. It’s just who I am.”

“We could always be buddies.”

“Yeah…. I don’t think…”

“Well, look, uh, hold onto my number, in case anything changes.”

“Take care, Cole.” Sam hangs up and deletes his number.

 

***

 

Dean crawls backward on his ass, like a panicked crab until his back is against the frigid brick wall. His breath puffs out in thick white clouds as the shadowy figure approaches, its features contorted into a vicious snarl. With an arm, he shields his face and braces himself.

 

***

Speed dial # 2

On the fifth ring, Charlie answers with a groan.

“Is it too late?” Sam asks.

“It's never too late for vampires, Sam. We don't sleep.”

“It's too late.” He had known before he called.

“What do you need?”

“Am I being a nuisance? I’m being a nuisance.”

Sam can’t tell what Val mumbles, but her tone of voice is clear.

“Oh, my God. I'm groomzilla.”

“I think what my associate is trying to convey is that when we say we got this...”

Sam covers his eyes with his hand. “I know. I'm sorry..”

“And then you call for the third time, today --”

“I know, I know.”

“It makes us feel as though you don't believe that we do, in fact, have it.”

“I have complete and utter faith in you, Charlie. I do.”

“Save the I dos for Dean,” she says. “What do you want?”

 

***

 

An arctic wind crashes over Dean as the thing reaches for him. Before it makes contact, a gun goes off, the blast reverberating off the walls as the apparition shatters and fades.

“Now!”

Dean scrambles to his feet and races to the pile Rufus prepared in the fireplace. The woman’s brittle corpse, her locket and the lock of hair are already doused in salt and kerosene. He lights a match and tosses it onto the remains.

An unholy screech pierces the air as the heap sizzles and crackles.

“Jesus.”

“If you say so, kid. I’m Jewish.”

Dean looks at him and can’t hold back the laughter. It rises to a hysterical pitch as the flame reduces this case to ash. It takes the grizzled vet a moment, but he starts in, too, clapping Dean on the shoulder. “Good job, kid.”

 

***

 

“I was just thinking, the whole matching suits idea is probably more my thing than Dean’s.” Sam swirls the water in his wine glass.

They haven’t even begun to discuss catering.

“This may sound crazy to you,” Charlie says. “But we also know Dean, and while he's not calling constantly, he has a pretty clear vision for how he wants this thing to go?”

“Seriously? What is it?” Sam would empty his bank account for that kind of intel.

“Do you talk to your fiancé?”

“Every day, multiple times, but not about this.” As if Dean is going to discuss wedding details. “It drives me nuts.”

“Clearly,” Charlie says, rightfully snarky. “I will tell you that I’ve started working on his designs.”

This is the juiciest update Sam’s gotten since Dean knocked his socks clear across the universe by accepting the proposal in the first place. “What does he plan to wear?

“It's a surprise.”

 

***

 

“And that there is 101,” Rufus says, pulling a beer from his cooler and passing it to Dean.

“So you’ll do that … to my bones if I … if that’s the only way.”

“Damn straight.”

It’s a mild night for January, so they sit in the cab of the old man’s Ford pick up, riding down the high from the hunt. Rufus clinks his glass bottle to the one in Dean’s hand and asks, “You still want to--”

“Absolutely fucking yes.” The idea behind this adventure was to see if Dean is cut out for the Hunter’s life. If it’s something he would even want to pursue. A simple salt and burn, they’d called it. “But that was a ghost. “When do we start tackling demons?”

“We’re not tackling anything,” Rufus says. “We are strategically eradicating nefarious supernatural entities.”

“Okay. When do we start strategically eradicating demons?”

“One godforsaken thing at a time, kid.” Rufus drinks, savoring his mouthful of foam like it’s the last. “The way I hear it, you got studying to do, both in school and out. And eight or nine months before Big Bad comes for you.”

Dean nods and taps his heel on the busted up floor mat. Maybe they could turn on the heater after all. The beer blends with the soot in his throat and burns on the way down to his empty gullet. He’d been warned not to eat in case of a squeamish panic.

He hadn’t felt in the least sick. His blood is still super-charged as if he’s been plugged in for the first time. Fighting, fucking, football: none of it comes close to the rush of the hunt. Flipping the script to Dean’s problems is a hard swing in the opposite direction.

Dean caresses his ring with his thumb. What would Sam think of all this? He and Luna are the only parts of his life that aren’t fucked up. He can’t have it anywhere near them. “Singer used to do this?”

“Singer, huh?” Rufus grins. “Yeah. Bobby was very, very good at this.”

“So, what happened?”

“He got his answers, and he stopped chasing the bogeyman.”

Dean tried to unravel the grim expression on Rufus’ dark face. “His answers?”

“He didn’t tell you all this?”

Dean shrugs. Singer had told him that he’d been a priest and a hunter, and that he’d decided that what he was doing now - the social work with LGBTTQQIAAP youth - was more meaningful. He’d given Dean books on the occult, but when Dean asked how he could know what’s out there and sit on his ass doing nothing.

“You can’t save the world, Dean,” Singer said. “You can only just be yourself. You do that, it’s already a big deal.”

Still, couldn't help wanting to try, so the old man had turned him over to an active hunter.

Hence, the routine salt and burn.

“Bobby…” Rufus says. “You know he grew up Catholic, right?”

Dean nods. Priest. Duh.

“Me? I come from Baptist stock, but it’s the same basic line of bullshit. Homosexuality is the Devil’s work and all that garbage. You know Bobby was exorcised five times before he joined the priesthood?”

“He was possessed?” Dean’s blood dropped twenty degrees.

“No, Dean. He was gay. Which to some folks is the same damn thing.” Rufus wrapped his free hand around the steering wheel. “He made it his life’s mission to study demons and understand them. He killed his share, sure. But he also sat down face to face with them, just like I’m talking to you. Once he got it through his skull that the Devil and the Lord don’t give a fuck who you fuck… That was all he needed to know. It wasn’t all I needed, so … we parted ways.”

“You’re his guy?” Dean asked. Why’d it taken him so long to put that together? “You were. The guy.”

Rufus glances at him and returns to his beer.

“You’re safe here,” Dean says, taking a line from the social work scripts he learned from Singer. Bobby.

The old man chuckles. “Yeah. Me and Bobby got our history. Like I reckon you and your brother got yours.”

“He told you that? That fucker.”

Rufus smiles and cracks open his cooler for another bottle.

 

***

 

“How do you even do 14 years?”

“15 in spring.” Charlie yawns.

“How do we do that?” The undiscussed future plans have been keeping Sam awake more than the details of the wedding.

Some things are given: their parents can’t even know. They’ll tell Luna when she’s older.

But what if this thing is a shooting star? The sex and the emotions are explosive, but all the passion and fire could just be a catharsis. Once they’re together - legally bound - how do they keep from getting complacent and bored?

“I think for us, and I'm going to go ahead and speak for my colleague because she's fallen asleep…” Charlie says. “I think the trick has been knowing we could call it off at any time. She doesn't need me, I don't need her. Not to survive, you know.” She takes a loud breath that could have been another yawn. “I just wouldn't want to do it without her. That's my secret anyway. She might tell you something entirely different.”

Alone in his living room, Sam nods. “Thank you, Charlie.”

“Not a problem, Sam,” she says. “You guys'll be better than fine. When all else fails, fuck. Second tip for a long, happy marriage is a good night’s rest. Sleep good, kiddo.”

“You, too.” Once he’s hung up, all Sam has to do is wait for his Good Night call.

 

***

 

Dean drags his groggy carcass into Mildred’s guest room. She’s going to be pissed if he makes the sheets smell like a week-old ashtray, so he wrestles out of his clothes before tossing himself face down onto the bed for a minute-long catnap.

Sam’ll be pissed if Dean doesn’t at least call to say good night. Smiling, but still too exhausted to get up, he pats around on the side of the bed until he finds his phone in his pants pocket.

It’s quarter to midnight, but Sam answers on the second ring. “Hey, Mr. Winchester. You all studied up?”

“How many times do I have to tell you that's not going to happen?” Dean lets his eyes slip closed. “First of all, I'm not changing my name, like some chick. Second, I'm never going by Winchester. Doesn't even sound right.”

It’s all a fantasy anyway, but Dean never says that part out loud. Sometimes, he even lets himself believe it. He runs his thumb over the ring.

The fact is, Bobby is a demon expert, and he’s nowhere near finding the right spell to keep Crowley off Dean's back. On the other hand, he has found a few things that would take the King of Hell off Sam's scent when the time comes. The most promising option sounds like a reverse of Love Potion Number 9. It would basically make Sam and Dean repellent to each other.

If they don’t find anything else, Bobby can cook that up the day before Dean’s birthday. He’ll make a batch that’ll protect Luna, Jo, Mildred, Garth, Mrs. Winchester and Bobby himself. They’ll even collect a hair sample from Angela, and her batty ass will be covered. Then, Dean can just tell Crowley to go pork himself, because he’ll hate everyone he used to love.

The only problem is that Bobby doesn’t know of an antidote.  
It’s a worst case solution, but better than no plan at all.

Dean researches, too, not that he knows what he’s looking for. In class, he holds the crusty old tomes inside of his textbooks. He pores over legends and lore about dark deals, witches, and crossroads. Vampires, werewolves, zombies: nothing is too outlandish. Most nights, if he’s not at Bobby’s or Garth’s, he sits up in bed, scouring esoteric pseudo-scientific shit about parallel universes and extra-terrestrials, reading until his eyes water.

Most of it floats over his head like a Goodyear blimp, even on the third read. In moments like those, he wishes Sam would take this seriously so they could puzzle over the details with him.  
Sam has made it clear, though, that he doesn’t believe.  
It’s probably for the best.

“You there?” Sam asks.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Tired?”

Dean would give anything to have Sam's fingers on his neck, but he'll have to settle for that quiet, day-worn tone of voice. “Little bit.”

“How was your day?

“Decent,” Dean says, then adds. “Saw a ghost.”

“You saw a ghost?”

“Yeah. And salted and burned its bones. So, that happened.”

“Okay.” Sam’s reaction is always the same to this kind of stuff.

Dean laughs and changes the subject to something they can both get into. “What are you wearing?” He rolls onto his back and scratches his junk.

“Want to see?”

Dean’s phone beeps and in comes a pic of Sam’s POV down his body in just a pair of black boxer briefs. He is sitting up slightly to crunch his abs, and all Dean can say is, “Holy. … When are you coming up here again?”

“I was thinking Valentine’s, if that’s not too soon.”

“Too soon? It’s, like, three weeks from now.”

“Three and a half,” Sam says. “Who’s counting? So, that would be okay with you?”

“Are you kidding?” If Dean could be in Florida right now, he would pack his shit and go.

He’d even fly to get there.

  
But his best bet is with Bobby. If a miracle happens and everything goes right in October, He and Sam’ll have the rest of their lives together.  
The slight chance of that is the only reason Dean hasn’t already given up. Won’t give up until Rufus is standing over his ashes.

“Oh, hey. Did I tell you, Angie put you in her speech?” he says, to lighten his own thoughts.

“I’m scared to ask.”

“No, it was sweet. Bobby had to edit out to like half of it, but --”

“Since when are you and Singer on a first name basis?”

Dean ignores that. “She talked a lot about you and how your patience helped her heal.”

“Wow, that’s-”

“Yeah, we got this trans kid in the group, now. Born a girl, but still … How was your day? You get them taxes filed?”

“That I did,” Sam says. “Just still debating whether and what to tell Ruby. I mean, once you come down here --”

“We don’t need to answer that question today. Or tomorrow.” Maybe ever.

‘Yeah, but it would be good to have a game plan.”

“When we need a game plan, we’ll get one. Right now, you should relax and send me another one of them pics.” Dean’s eyes are shut, but he’d sure as shit perk up for that.

“Horny puppy.”

“Yes sir, I am.” Dean palms himself.

“You know, we could Skype.”

“My data plan sucks.” There are other things that suck. Dean smiles to himself.

“We’re gonna have to--”

A knock on his door interrupts Sam’s statement.

When Dean came in the house, Mildred had been on the sofa watching a CSI rerun. He’d kissed her cheek and said he was turning in. It isn’t like her to disturb him if it isn’t necessary.

“S’up, Mil?” Dean sits up in bed. “Sam, you hold on a second?”

“I should probably get to bed. Was just waiting to hear from you.” Sam says. “We’re going to do something about that data plan.”

“Yeah. Alright. G’night.” Dean takes a moment to pry his eyelids open in the dark room.

“Sleep well.” Sam’s ‘I love you’ is always there, under his breath, between whatever words he says to end the conversation.

“You, too.”

Dean opens the door, grinning as he waits to hear what Mildred is going to say about his state of undress. If he’s a horny puppy, she’s a randy old sow.

The concerned look on her face wipes the smirk from his. “What’s going on?”

“John Winchester is at the door,” she says. “Sounding like the town drunk at last call.”

“What the fuck?” That news is a straight shot of caffeine and Dean is instantly awake.

After their hallway incident, Winchester had gotten the message and kept out of Dean’s way. Their paths hadn’t even crossed at school. His losing team was his fault and his problem. There have been reports of the coach coming to school sloshed, but Dean didn’t confirm or care. They give each other a wide berth, and that’s the way it needs to stay.

Showing up at Mildred’s place in the middle of the night is out of character and out of line. Dean starts to barrel past her and put that bastard back in his place.

Mildred shakes her head and stops him with a sturdy hand to his chest. The keys jingle as she hands them over. “I think you should let me handle it. Do you have somewhere you can go for tonight? Garth’s maybe.”

“He can’t just show up here.”

“I don’t want you in a fight with that man, Dean.”

“I can take him.”

She purses her lips. And maybe she’s right. Even with Dean’s street experience and the stuff he’s learning from Rufus, he’d have to shank Winchester to win a real brawl. Dean hates the man, but he’s not about to kill anybody, if he can help it.

“Go out of the window.”

“You’re telling me to sneak out?” Dean paints on a grin for her.

Mildred pats his cheek. “Make tracks, kid.”

He dresses, flees down the trellis and lands like a cat with one wobbly ankle on the dewy grass. As he creeps around the side of the house, Mildred opens the front door, turning up the old lady act. She might as well be a chameleon, warbling in a feeble voice, something about her bad hip. Yeah, right. She was doing the Twist while she scrambled the eggs this morning.

Dean turns the ignition in her crappy little Mazda before he shuts the door. He floors it and is halfway up the street before he checks the rearview.

He calls Singer on the way.

At the house, he tears up the front steps. The door opens before he knocks and slams shut again behind him. The whole place shudders and then stills, as if a three-car train has passed by.

Singer holds a shotgun in both hands. “Well, what the hell did you dredge up? Tell me you haven’t been doing spell work on your own again.”

“I haven’t done shit. I was out with Rufus tonight. Got back and John Winchester starts huffing and puffing at the goddamn door.”

“You sure he’s human?” Bobby asks.

“What do you mean?’

“No regular mortal has this kind of effect on the house. There’s something otherworldly on your ass.”

It’s not so much a knock as a half-crazed bang on the door. Bobby cocks his weapon.

“Dean,” Coach Winchester’s shout is muffled through the door. His boots thud against the oak. “Listen to me, boy. I know you’re in there and I know what’s happening.”

“What the fuck is he talking about?” Dean looks around for a candlestick or a flower pot - anything he can weaponize.

“I’m not going to let them have you.” Winchester shouts through the door. “You’re my son, god damn it. My son, Dean. You hear? I’m going to protect you. No matter what it takes.”

“Now he gets religion.” Singer shakes his head and walks toward the door.

“What the hell are you--”

“If he ain’t human, he won’t be able to cross the threshold. But the asshole is trying to make amends,” Singer says. “You don’t have to forgive, but you need to let him speak his peace... Make his atonement.”

“I don’t owe him shit. You do what you want.” Dean stalks to the kitchen for a beer.

When he returns, Singer has actually let that asshole into the house. Coach Winchester sits on the sofa at gunpoint. “I thought we'd wait for you. Teachable moments and all.”

A tray of implements is laid out on the coffee table. Singer talks Dean through testing for possessions, influences, and presences. Splash holy water in John Winchester’s face is mildly rewarding, even if it doesn’t turn up anything.

Singer has to do the cutting. Somehow, for as much as Dean thought he wanted to hurt the man, he can't bring himself to cut him. Doesn’t want to look at his blood.

“All right.” Singer nudges the man with the barrel. “Get to talking.”

Dean starts to leave the room again. He’d rather wait in the cellar than sit through this.

“You.” Singer holds the gun on him. “Sit.”

“You're not going to shoot me.”

“No, but I can sure as hell beat you over the head. Now sit down and listen. You might learn something, y’idjit.”

The farthest seat from Winchester is Bobby’s beat up La-Z-Boy. He sits, with his arms folded, not looking at his so-called father.

“You were perfect,” The coach drops his face into his hands. “I was an idiot. Should have told her no. Done my time. Your mom ... her folks had already told her if she had the baby, she was on her own. So she … She did the best she could. She was just trying to … fix everything I’d fucked up.”

“Your wife made the deal?” Singer asks.

“I didn’t even know about it at first. Not until later.” The words spill from Coach Winchester’s mouth. “Everything just… it was like magic. The DA threw out the case. Parole officer got me enrolled in the Marines. I started playing ball, got a scholarship. Just everything turned around. But there was this thing we were supposed to do…”

What does Bobby want Dean to say? He already knows this part.

“We were supposed to let them take your blood, whenever they wanted it. It wouldn't kill you. You wouldn’t even hardly feel it, they said. Not any worse than getting a shot. That's not too bad, right? 18 years of that. That’s it. We had to keep you pure and available. That’s it. Only, the first time they came to collect, your mom ... She couldn’t hack it. Ran. Set up this other deal…”

“With Jody?” Dean hears himself ask.

“She was supposed to protect you. Keep you safe for 18 years, until the contract lapsed, then bring you back to us, but still as a little baby. She said she had a way to do that. You'd have been the youngest then, but you’d be ours. The agreement was we’d pick you up at the crossroads on your 18th birthday. But she wasn’t there.  
Josephine said the hounds sniffed you out after 14 years and she had to go on the run with you. That's why she never showed up.  
It took Mary years to get over it. To let you go … We both assumed you were … dead. Or worse.”

It wasn’t anything new. Just minor details filling in the version Angela had told, and still…

“I know I’ve lost you, son. You and Sam.” Coach hung his head again, but only for a moment. “But the demons. They’ve come to collect, and like Hell I’m going to let that happen. They can take me instead.”

“What are you talking about?” Bobby furrows his brow.

“When Josephine brought you up, the clock restarted. You’re 18 in..” he checks his watch. “Thirteen minutes. Then, the bill comes due. ”

“No.” Dean shakes his head. “My birthday is in October.”

“I turned you over to Josephine in October,” Winchester says. “You were eight months old before they came the first time.”

Dean looks to Singer with wide eyes, only barely managing to keep the panic from blaring out of his mouth in a scream.

“All right, listen,” Bobby says. “You keep it together, Dean. You did the right thing coming here. Nothing can get you in this house. Not Crowley, not the Lord God Almighty himself. You are going to hole up in here until we figure this thing out. You got that?”

“What about Sam?” Dean swallows and doesn’t even give a shit what Winchester thinks of that question.

“I can whip up that brew in a few hours, if you have anything of his? Skin? Hair?”

“What the fuck, Bobby? You think I carry his hair around with me?”

“Even just a strand on your clothes.”

Mildred had been on his case for a week before Dean had done his laundry. He’ll scour every thread, but it’s the definition of a long shot.

“When’s the last time you … you know?”

Sam’s been gone for over a week. Dean shakes his head.

“I’ll figure it out.” Singer raises both hands in the universal sign for calm down. “Get some sleep. You, come with me.” Singer waves at Winchester, and they both disappear into the underground library.

 

***

Sleep.  
Singer’s got jokes.  
Dean can’t even lay down. Can’t be still. Can’t see straight, or hardly fill his lungs.

Sam hasn’t answered any of his calls or texts. He wouldn’t ignore an urgent request. He normally doesn’t let three minutes pass after a ‘Hey’ before he writes back something.

“Anything, Sam. Please,” Dean says out loud.

“I’m not being stood up, am I, Dean Winchester?” Crowley’s voice booms within his skull.

Dean spins around, claps his hands over his ears. Shouts. “Singer??!!”

“You and I have a little têt a têt scheduled, do we not?”

Dean races around the house, stumbles down the stairs, trips over his feet and nearly lands on his face. Singer and Winchester are drinking coffee like it’s a goddamn Folger’s commercial.

“He’s in my head! He’s in my fucking head.”

“Alright. Calm down. It’s like a speaker system. He doesn’t know what you’re thinking. Just trying to get under your skin.” Bobby clutches Dean’s shoulders and gives a small shake to force him to focus. “Listen to me. I can’t brew the repellent without something of Sam’s. I could protect myself and your dad, but that ain’t going to cut it. We got to go with … well, we haven't had a lot of time to hash this out, but there’s another thing. I just didn’t want to mess with it unless we had to.”

“What the fuck is it?”

“Your mother - Josephine - she ain’t no regular demon. Half-human. Not as strong as a Nephilim, but it’s no wonder Crowley kept her locked up. Probably scared out of his wits of her.” Bobby scrapes a hand over his whiskers. “She didn’t even know what she’s capable of. That, with Castiel's juice, we got some serious mojo. Just a matter of focusing it. I only wish we had more time.”

“Yeah, no shit, Bobby.”

“Listen, this ain’t my favorite option, but it’s all we got right now.”

“So?”

Bobby shook his head. “Don’t worry about the details. All you have to do is get to Sam and touch him.”

“Sam?”

“Crowley’s got him, Dean. If he’s calling you out, there’s no way he doesn’t.”

The wave of exhaustion and fear that washes over Dean weakens his knees. “Bobby. You said…”

“I’ve been working every angle, boy. If we had until October, maybe ...” He shakes his head. He’s giving up. Dean is on his own. “Just do like I say and get to Sam.”

It’s quiet in the house for a while. Silent in Dean’s head, long enough for him to be startled the next time Crowley speaks between his ears.

“I will make this so simple for you, Dean Winchester," he says. "Step onto the porch, now, and I won’t kill your brother.”

 


	63. Chapter 63

Sam is on his knees beside Crowley’s chair letting that asshole stroke his hair.

“I do like this one," Crowley says. "Bit like a Great Dane, the size, and temperament. What do you think of the name Moose? Now, don't fret. You can play with him as soon as we've hashed out our agreement.” 

“Sam.” Dean pins his frustration, anger, fear, and hatred behind pursed lips.

When Sam peers up with desperate eyes, Dean steps toward him.

“Ah-ah!” Crowley flicks a finger and flings Dean onto the cold, hard ground. “The moose is Mine. You may earn the right to play with him.”

Angela stands at Crowley’s right side, her face blank. If it’s her, she’s their only chance. But there’s no wink, no nod: no indication of this plan Singer mentioned. If it’s Jody at the helm in there, Dean wouldn't trust that bitch with his locker combination.

Gesturing to Sam, Dean says, “I need to make sure he’s okay.”

“Fraid he’s a bit tongue-tied at the moment. Can’t have all that pleading and blubbering interrupting our negotiations,” Crowley says. “Happy birthday, by the way.”

Dean bites his tongue to keep from cursing that son of a bitch. It's not Crowley's fault. Dean should have left Sam alone the moment he found out what he was mixed up in. Their fucking parents had created this fiasco, and there wasn’t a single way to clean it up. Not for both of them anyway.

“You let him go, I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Better idea.” Crowley grabs a fistful of Sam’s hair and exposes his collared throat. “I hold on to this, and you do whatever I want. Or I break his pretty legs or rip out that tongue you like so much. Or I could rearrange the whole thing. Make him into a chicken. How’d you like to fuck that?”

“What do you want me to sign, man? What do you want me to do? Souls? Fine. Just show me how.” Dean’s body buzzes with anxiety to please, to make this over, to go to Sam and beg his forgiveness.

“What?” Crowley’s brow raises, as do the corners of his ugly mouth. “Are you offering blanket allegiance? Oh, Josephine. You were right. All it takes is the proper leverage.”

Josephine could kiss Dean's ass. That bitch.

Crowley cackles and paws Sam’s head again. “What a good moose you are. Alright, big brother. On your knees.”

Dean complies, eyes never leaving Sam.

“You ought to see them together, Father,” Jody speaks up with her snooty Queen of England accent.

Dean would love nothing more than to bash her teeth in.

“Watch them kiss. It’s stirring,” she says.

“Hm. Perhaps another time." Crowley is back to idly stroking Sam. "Someday, we’ll have them fuck in front of the whole court. How would that be, darling?”

Dean clenches his teeth as Jody approaches and shoves him to his knees. “Show some respect when the king is speaking to you, boy. How would that be?”

His spit on her face isn’t nearly as gratifying as it should be. Maybe he should try his hands around her lying, demon whore throat.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “It has to be now.”

Jody cups Dean's face between her palms.

Crowley shouts, “Josephine, you bitch!” 

And it's the last thing Dean hears before the entire room illuminates so bright he has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep from going blind.

***

Dean.

The room is spinning. There are fingers in Sam’s hair.

Not Dean’s.

Castiel is talking. Angela. Touching. Dean is falling.

Sam rallies energy he doesn’t have and lurches forward to catch him.

Someone shouts, “Stop.”

Sam can’t. Won’t.  
Not when Dean needs him.

He charges, yelling as dark fire floods his veins.  
Cold electricity ignites his blood, sparks in his teeth.  
Sam crumbles to the ground, convulsing, foam fizzing on his tongue.  
He's reduced to crawling, dragging his body on numbing elbows until there's  
No space between them.

Dean’s eyes are open  
Lush green, deep enough to fall into.

Strange.  
Angela’s touch makes the pain subside  
The whole world is bright  
No more concrete and cold  
No more dank room and cruel faces

They’re in the forest by Doggett’s Creek  
Naked as the sand and pebbles  
Dean’s head is on Sam’s lap  
They have nowhere to be  
Everything they need  
And nothing but time  
Forever

Then Dean is gone  
And Sam's alone

stripped bare  
and lost  
in these woods  
that ought to feel like home


	64. Chapter 64

“Dean!”

Wherever Sam is shouting from, Dean can’t see him. The brightness fades, but his head still thrums like he’s been banging it with a brick.

Slowly, the world comes into focus, and Dean takes the outstretched hand that hoists him to his feet. The solid clap on the shoulder is as strange as it is familiar.

“You all right?” Sam asks.

“What the hell happened?”

“I’m not sure. You just went down.”

Dean squints. No more cellar. They’re in some field; the Impala’s parked in the distance.

He rubs his buzzing head. “Where are we?”

“Grand Island, Nebraska? Cattle mutilations. Werewolves, maybe,”  
Sam says. “Look, you need a couple of hours, take ‘em. We’ve been pushing pretty hard this last couple of days and face it, that rugaru took a chunk out of you. I’ll do the interviews, bring back something to eat.”

“Did you just say werewolves?”

“Dean. Go back. Lay down.” Sam grins, shakes his head and pats Dean’s back again before walking toward the car.

Something about him is different, even besides the being cool about werewolves. The hair maybe?

But who cares? They’re both alive. Crowley isn’t here.  
One point for the good guys.  
Except that Dean is about to hurl. He needs that couple of hours.  
Or days.

Behind the driver’s seat, everything is screwy, too. Smaller.  
Even Dean’s hands on the steering wheel are all wrong. He adjusts the mirror and gawks at the crow’s feet around wide, green eyes. “Holy shit!”

His brain screeches to a halt while he stares at himself - old.

Thought comes back online like a carousel grinding into action. If this were the future, Sam would be older, too and that’s not what’s off about him. It’s the everything. The way he walks and talks and carries himself. And touches Dean and smiles. Like when he was pretending to be Samantha - as if he’s close to being Sam, but not quite.

That book from Bobby about parallel universes and other dimensions was all theory, but that has to be what this is: another reality in which anything can be the same or different, based on the ripples caused by each decision. Core relationships might remain, but the details are up for grabs.

“Jesus Christ.” Dean is still staring in the mirror when Sam leans in the driver’s window.

“You good?”

“What, am I, like, 50?”

Sam chuckles. “Do you need me to drive?”

“No. I’m good. You said Nebraska? East Nebraska? That’s like, what, four hours from Lawrence?”

“What the hell do you need in Lawrence?” Sam’s features swing hard from amused to weirded out.

Dean digs into his jacket pocket for a wallet so he can see it for himself.

“I figured you’d forgotten your birthday like you usually do. The premature senility routine is new.” Sam flicks his eyebrows, whatever that means.

Dean doesn’t know this guy. This is not his Sam.

This stranger in Sam’s body says, “We’ll celebrate if you want. Get you some beer, a blond, a brunette. Both? I don’t know what you want. But I’ll handle this first and then…”

“Yeah. No. You do this. Werewolves. ‘Course.”

Dean’s ID says he’s thirty-fucking-four.

Not-Sam walks off. Did he seriously say a blond and a brunette?

Dean prays to the God of whatever reality he’s in that Robert Singer lives in the same place.

***

Of course, no such luck. Apparently, no God here either.

Somehow, it only occurs to Dean as he’s watching the woman her close the door that this Dean might know a Robert Singer, too.

Before he can check his contacts, Sam rings the phone in his jacket. “Where are you? What the hell is going on?”

“Do we know a Robert Singer?”

“Seriously, Dean. This isn't funny.”

“Is that a yes or a no? Humor me, Sam. Please.” Not that there’s anything humorous about the situation.

Dean is every bit as close to wit’s end as Sam sounds.

“Bobby ... has been gone almost a year, Dean. There’s no way you’d forget that.”

Dean doubles over like he’s been kicked in the pit of his stomach.  
He covers his mouth with his hand and waits for the pain to become bearable enough to speak. “He was … the closest thing I ever had to a father.”

“That goes for both of us,” Sam says. “What the hell is going on with you?”

Dean wipes his face, pacing this woman’s front yard, wracking his pounding brain. This-Sam was all grins about werewolves; maybe Dean can toss this madness at him. “I got to find someone who knows something about parallel universes.”

“Okay. Why?”

“It’s going to sound crazy.”

“Yeah. That’s what we do, Dean.”

“I don’t belong here. I’m not… this guy.” Dean leans down to look into the Impala’s mirror.

His face is covered in scruff. In his reality, he’d just started to shave.

“Get back here, and we’ll figure it out,” Sam says.

Not-Sam. This-Sam’s voice is lower, louder, mildly hostile.  
Still bitchy, though.

“Do you believe me?” Because if not, there is no point Dean wasting his time getting back to him.

“It wouldn’t be the strangest thing that ever happened to us. Just … meet me at the motel.”

A wave of relief. Then another thought. “Sam.”

“Yeah?”

“What motel?”

***

“A Rufus Turner?” Dean tried another name. Rufus could help.

“Yeah, but he’s gone, too.”

Dean winces. Is anybody alive over here?

This-Sam drives about the same as Dean’s Sam, which is no compliment.

“Your mom and dad?”

“Are we not brothers where you’re from?” Sam turns, brow pinched with concern and hurt.

“No, we are. Only--”

“They’re dead here,” Sam says. “Do you want the whole story?”

“No.” All Dean wants is to get off this timeline and back to real-Sam.

Still, once the car is moving forward on the open road, it’s kind of like cruising with Jody in the old days. Dean relaxes a bit, in spite of the way Sam side-eyes him: confused. Maybe longing, too.

Dean isn’t going to fuck this guy. It’d be too weird, but a little contact would ease his worried mind. This-Sam is every bit as hot as the real thing.

Dean lays his left hand on Sam’s thigh. The guy looks down at it, then back up with an expression that makes it plain this-Sam and this-Dean don’t do that.

This reality sucks.

“I need to get some sleep.” Dean takes back his hand and closes his eyes.

From one nightmare into another.

***

The car is parked under a tree. There’s coffee and something greasy in a paper bag. Breakfast burrito. Dean looks up from his third bite into the same gorgeous Sam smile.

He never wanted to kiss anybody so bad in all his life.

“We grew up in this car.” The words burst out of him, mid-chew, as unbidden as the thought had broken into his mind.

But he sees it in technicolor, along with John Winchester driving and growling along to Led Zeppelin.

Sam nods. “So, you’re back? I mean, you’re you?”

“No. I just ... dreamed it?”

“So, how did you grow up?” Sam asks, cautious, but with curiosity, not disbelief.

“Um…” Dean prods his mind and turns up nothing that isn’t this car. He shuts his eyes. “With my mom, I think.”

“You're swapping out memories,” Sam supplies. “According to some interpretations of Everett's theory, a fractured reality will seek continuity through assimilation of any altered elements..."

“Yeah. I know.” Dean had read the damn theory. “I can't remember her name.”

His brain aches with the effort of trying.

“My mother's name is Mary Winchester,” Sam says - throwing in an odd number while Dean is trying to count evens.

“Yeah,” he says. “Me too, I think…”

Sam drives five miles in silence.

“Judy!" Dean shouts. "My mother’s name is Judy. Or Josie. Something like that.”

“Well, we know a Jody Mills,” Sam says. “But she’d be pissed to hear you say she was old enough to be your mother.”

***

By the time they stop for gas Dean has been popping 5-hour energy every two hours. Sleep makes him forget, and he can’t spare any more pieces of who he is.

Sam finishes pumping and slides into the driver’s seat. “You sure you don’t want to drive?”

Dean shakes his head. Doesn’t feel sturdy or real enough. “Nah. You know where it is.”

Sam starts the car and Dean catches his wrist before he puts it in gear. He wasn’t going to ask. Was going to get to this Jody and see if she can help. But the hollow in his core is growing and this is a matter of need. “Are we… we’re not, are we?”

“Are we what?” Sam asks.

The energy has crackled between them since he’d arrived on this timeline, but Dean didn’t dare bridge the gap until now.

“Sam, would you kiss me, please?”

“Um…”

Dean chuckles, like it’s no big deal. Like he’s not falling apart. Dissolving from the inside out. “Just… I need to feel you. I don’t want to forget.”

“We’re almost there.” Sam puts the car in first and drives.

His lips purse tight as his hand slides over and squeezes Dean’s. He glances over, probably to see if it’s enough.

It’s not.

***

“Castiel,” Sam says after they pass the state sign for South Dakota.

“What?”

“The kind of energy required for this kind of jump... You need to call Cas.”

Dean scoffs. What the hell does Sam think that would accomplish?  
“I’m not calling her.”

“Castiel is our friend. My brother’s and mine. He’s an angel.”

Dean’s snort descends into hysterical laughter that stops abruptly when Sam’s stoic expression doesn't change.

“OK. Well, not where I come from.”

“You need to pray to him.”

“What?”

“That’s how we call him.”

“Jesus. You’re serious?" Dean shakes his head. "Then, you do it. I’m not fucking praying to Castiel or Angela or anybody else.”

“He responds to you.” Sam shrugs. “You two … have a connection. He and my brother do. Ever since Cas raised him from Hell.”

Dean can only stare. What the hell do you say to that?

“Just… can you trust me, please?”

Cursing under his breath, Dean closes his eyes. In his mind, Angela grins at him, waggles her fingers. Dean sucks his teeth and says, “Get the fuck over here.”

It's as close to praying as he's going to get.

“Something’s different.”

Dean's eyes snap open at an unfamiliar voice from the back seat.

Angela has materialized out of nothing, with hair clipped short and spiky. She’s wearing a suit and tie, a beige trench coat and a stern grimace.

“So, you’re a dude again,” Dean says. “And Sam's a Hunter, and you’re the accountant over here. This is so weird.”

Castiel cocks his head like a baffled beagle and growls, “You’re not Dean.”

“Yeah, I am.”

“No, you’re…” He squints the same blue eyes as Angela and says, “Another Dean.”

Sam scratches the back of his neck. “We need to get a room.”

***

“Every soul is like a diamond, in the sense that it has many facets,” Castiel says. “Countless, in fact. As many as there are decisions in a lifetime. Each of these facets is focused on a single timeline.”

“Then, can you somehow communicate with the other facets of yourself?” Sam asks, handing Dean a beer. “Find the one that corresponds with … this Dean?”

"I believe I can."

Dean accepts the drink and only flinches, doesn’t move away when Castiel’s cold fingers press to the skin between his eyes.

Silver flashes over blue eyes and the concentration on Cas’ face melts into a maniacal grin.

“Sphinx! Well, I sure as hell thought you were dead.”

“How are you an angel?” It's the first thing Dean thinks to say.

Castiel’s smile descends into laughter. “Surprise, sweet cheeks!"

“So, are you a man or a woman?” Another off-topic question that Dean can't help but ask.

“Angels don’t have gender, honey. The remodeling was Jimmy’s idea.”

“Who the fuck is Jimmy?” They’re so off-res with this conversation that Dean can only let the thing unfold.

“My vessel. Well, Jody’s and mine, now.”

“Jody’s in there?”

“Not in here,” Castiel ran a hand through his hair. “In our vessel: Angela Novak. Your mom and me, we're ... compatible. And Angie, well.. Most vessels would explode under the pressure of hosting a demonic and angelic entity simultaneously. She really is remarkable.”

Dean sank onto the foot of the bed. “You and Jody...”

“Don’t be so weirded out. Spirits don’t fuck. But if we did, that tent would be rockin'," Castiel says. "You could think of me as your step-dad.”

Sam's eyes are wide as they'll go. At least Dean’s not the only one who's freaked the fuck out.

“If you’re an angel, how could you do all those things to Sam?”

“Why does a human child pluck off a bug’s wings?” Castiel shrugged. “Because it’s easy and fun and they make these little noises.”

He flails his arms, buzzing like a helpless insect.

“And this Jimmy guy?”

Castiel chuckles. “James Novak began praying to the Lord when she was very young. At first, she’d beg for her body to change. Then, she pleaded not to want to be a girl anymore. It was pitiful and hilarious.”

Sam’s face read disgust now. Dean could only listen.

“Jimmy was pious and faithful and good,” Castiel says. “And if you hadn’t noticed, my father doesn’t answer prayers. So, I took mercy on her, you know why? Because Heaven is fucking boring.

Little Jimmy and I made an arrangement whereby, I got to use her beautiful body, and in exchange, I would do the things she wasn’t brave enough to do. Like Sammy. Jimmy never would have had the balls to go after him, but I did.

You humans have no idea how marvelous this life can be because you spend so much time squashing your emotions, trying to keep every one else happy but yourselves.

Anyway, Little Jimmy is a big girl now, and she asked me to stop breaking things. Asked me to let Jody in. Asked me to help you, and Sammy, so here we all are. You could never have made this leap without me, so, you’re welcome.”

“Thanks, but I don’t want to be here,” Dean says. “This guy isn’t Sam. No offense.”

Castiel looks this-Sam over. “He’s hot, though. Bobby said you wanted to be a Hunter. Jody and I specifically found a reality where you and Sammy are hunting together all the fucking time. How is that not what you want?”

“We’re not together, though," Dean says. "Not all the way."

Inscrutable expressions flit over Sam's face. There's no point trying to guess what he’s thinking.

“So, what is it that you want?” Cas asks.

“Being with Sam is the only thing that matters to me.”

Castiel rolls his eyes and keeps them shut. His fingers riffle over the air as if he's scrolling through files. “Too many to choose from just based on that. Okay. How about a timeline with football and a Sam you can fuck? How does that sound?”

It sounds like paradise, even if this-Sam is squirming in his skin.  
Dean adds, “And no John Winchester.”

“He’s your father,” Castiel says. “He’s going to figure into the equation on every timeline.”

“Can he be dead? And no fucking magic. No ghosts and demons and shit. Or if they’re there, I don’t want to know about it.”

“That can be arranged.”

"Excuse me," Sam takes a step toward them. "Where is my brother?"

"Well, my best guess, Sammy, is that without being tethered to a body, he's in-between. Shouldn't hurt. And when I send this one somewhere else, you get your brother back."

This explanation seems to satisfy Sam. Castiel's hands rise toward Dean's face.

“Wait!” He ducks away. “What if the next timeline is fucked up, too?”

“You can call me anytime, have a nice chat, if you like, but Jody says, and I agree, that this should be the last jump.”

If Castiel is here, so is Jody. All he has to do is ask, “Can I talk to her?”

Castiel blinks, and when his eyes open again, the change is so subtle, Dean wouldn’t have noticed if he didn’t know.

“Hey, little shit.” Jody grins and blinks blue eyes.

“What the hell, Jody? Co-habiting with that freak?”

“It works.” Castiel smiles, and though he doesn’t look a thing like Jody, Dean can see her.

This is his chance to yell, curse, and spit in her face again.

Or to apologize for ever doing that. For being such a brat. When she’d done the best she could.

They all had. John Winchester, Mary.  
Dean can see that now.  
Everybody is just flying blind.

He lowers his head, and she touches his cheek.

“Hey. I’m sorry." Jody says through Castiel. "For everything. We’re going to make this right, okay? How does happy-ever-after with a giant sound?”

Dean nodded. “Sounds good.”

“Listen, this has to be the last one, Dean. Every time you jump timelines, you risk a soul fracture. We're talking irreparable damage. No fun.”

Dean nods, though he has no idea what she’s talking about. There's no mention of that in the theory. He couldn’t care less if his soul splits right down the middle if it means he can put his hands all over Sam.

"Okie doke. Click your heels, kiddo." Jody squeezes his face between Castiel’s palms.

After that, it’s all bright lights and vertigo.

 

 

 

 

 


	65. Chapter 65

Dean’s head is a landfill. A little like the brain-mashed sensation right after a hit on the field, and a lot like being suctioned, nose-first, through his anus. All he can do is lay on the bitter cold ground, even as Sam’s warbled shouts become language.

“--- the fuck up, old man. We all know you’re faking.”

Then there’s the deep rumble of men’s laughter, but nothing solid for Dean to cling to. He's on his back, wavering at the edge of consciousness until a harsh kick in the kidney confirms that he is alive. Still, Dean doesn't open his eyes.

“Come on,” Sam says, from somewhere nearby. “Get up. You look like the end of the Steeler’s game.”

More laughter leads to another voice saying, “Yeah, cause you weren’t blocking for shit.”

“Fuck you, Wilson,” Sam shoots back, so close that Dean’s eyes open of their own accord.

It's okay, he decides. This has to be a better timeline than the last one. Castiel promised. They’re together. Together-together. Playing football. How could that not be awesome?

The corner of Dean's mouth quirks up, despite the screaming headache. Sam is wearing the same thing as the first time they met: pair of jeans, crisp white shirt, blue necktie and shiny ass shoes.

He looks different but incredible. His hair is longer and tied back in a low ponytail Dean can’t wait to get his fingers in. Seventy-five additional pounds of pure, lethal muscle are packed onto his shoulders and torso. His neck is thick as a bull's.

Jesus Christ, what a glorious monster.

“What the hell is wrong with you? Get up.” Sam kicks him again, this time in the thigh and it's going to bruise.

Dean staggers to his feet, checks out his hands. Still older. Presumably, it’s his 34th birthday on every timeline. Super Bowl ring. Packers. Sam’s is identical.

Yeah. This reality is good.

Sam follows Dean’s gaze, pats him on the back, hand lingering as he leans close to whisper, “What’s up?”

Dean breathes him in: musk and an almost-right cologne. He's smiling like a maniac with his hand on Sam’s back. “Nothing. Just… Must have knocked my brain loose.”

“Good. Then, let’s do this.” When Sam shoves, he means business.

Dean has enough information about rugby to know that’s what’s happening, but he's turning in circles trying to figure out what to do.

This-Sam is built for murder. That massive body barrels Dean back to the ground, where he blinks at the grey sky, wondering how this-Dean earned the punishment.

“Cake.”

It's another familiar voice.

Dean sits up, head still swimming from the reality jump and the impact. Ruby is standing on the deck of a huge house. She repeats, “Cake, guys.”

Dean’s heart dips at the sight of her, then soars again when Luna’s head peeks out from behind her, bunny-shy.

“Hey, you.” He grins and holds his arms open, still sitting in the frozen grass. “Get over here.”

Luna gawks at him and up at her mother. Ruby nods and Luna approaches him, slowly. “Yes, sir?”

“Sir?" Does this Dean bite little kids? "Where’s my hug?”

Luna looks back at her mother again, and Ruby shrugs. The munchkin takes another step closer and lets Dean hug her, although her arms remain pinned to her side. He lets her scurry back to her mom who looks at Dean as if he’d sprouted a third leg on his head.

But Ruby has baked a wicked cake for Dean and ten of his closest friends, whose names he doesn’t know. They’re all hot: football players with model wives who are a perfect storm of 6-foot blondes. Among the women, Ruby is the plainest, which is saying something, because she’s as stunning as ever. She's quieter than Dean has ever experienced her and that’s an improvement.

“My brother is the consummate bachelor,” Sam starts talking, and everybody shuts up. “So, there's nothing I can do but let him use my wife. Right, Ru?”

Her smile doesn’t look particularly genuine, but everybody laughs, so...

So, wait. What?  
They’re married?  
That can’t be right.

“Come on, geezer, blow out the candles before the house burns down.” Sam jostles him.

Dean does as he says and cuts the cake. He offers the first piece to Luna, and she ducks behind Ruby again.

“Take it!” Sam shouts and they both jump.

‘It’s okay.” Dean stops offering. “Who wants it?”

“No. Luna, you get your ass over here and take this cake.” Sam snatches the plate from Dean’s hand. “Your uncle’s tryna give you something, you fucking say thank you.”

If Dean ever wondered about curdling blood, now he knows. “Sam, it’s--”

“It’s not okay. I’m sick of this ungrateful attitude. She gets it from her mother, and it gets on my goddamn nerves. I give them every fucking thing … A hell of a lot more than we ever had growing up.”

Everyone is silent, gazing into beer cans and watching life-sized ski footage on the 90” screen, waiting for Hurricane Sam to blow over.

“Sam, she doesn’t want any,” Ruby starts.

Sam grabs her arm and drags her toward the kitchen, stopping only when Dean steps in front of them. “Hey.”

Sam cocks his head like a confused Rottweiler and lets her go.

Dean keeps his voice quiet enough that it stays between them. “That’s not cool, man.”

Hazel eyes narrow for a second. The right eyes, but the expression is all wrong. All at once, Sam punches Dean’s chest, really fucking hard, but with a broad, beautiful smile.

“You’re right. I’m sorry, dude. It’s your birthday. I’ll deal with this shit at home.” Then he turns and points. “Luna, every last bite. I want to see you licking the plate.”

Ruby slips into the kitchen as Sam moves to the sofa. People crowd around him listening to a story he’s telling way too loud.

Not-Sam.

His wife is gripping the counter with both hands and jumps when she senses motion beside her.

“Sorry,” Dean says. “You okay?”

She chuckles and nods, collecting non-existent crumbs.

“You made that cake?”

“I always make the cake, Dean. Sam said you were acting weird.”

“He said that?”

“Are you feeling okay? Think you might be concussed?”

Dean laughs and wipes both eyes. Thinks he's on the verge of blowing chunks. “So, let me get this straight. You and Sam … Sam and I are… And Luna. Is she scared of me?”

“You just don’t usually talk to her.”

“I love her," Dean says. "Does she know that?”

Ruby searches his eyes before she reaches up and holds up his left eyelid. Seeing Sam in the doorway, she steps away and goes back to cleaning the already immaculate kitchen.

“Don’t stop on my account. You know I love you two together.”

“I think you're right,” she says over her shoulder. “He should see a doctor.”

“You hear that, Dean? She thinks. That’s not her job, is it? I guess that’s what you get when you marry a smart girl, right?” Sam stalks over, smacks Ruby’s ass and stands in front of Dean. “Get out.”

Dean is still smaller than Sam in this reality, but the fuck he’s going to let anyone order him around that way. But Ruby is scurrying from the kitchen.

“What the hell, Sam?”

“What the hell, what?”

“Why do you talk to her like that? And Luna? God!”

“Shit. You really did bust your head.” Sam curls a hand around Dean’s neck and peers into his eyes. “Do you even remember John Winchester?”

“Coach?”

“General,” Sam corrects.

“Yeah. Of course.”

“What was the General’s rule number one about dealing with females?” Sam waits.

Dean flounders. The only thing he can remember was Coach telling him was if he hurt Jo, he’d hurt Dean.

“Where’s Jo?”

“Jo? JoAnna?” Sam scoffs. “All right. I’m making that appointment first thing in the morning. You seriously don't remember Jo found her birth mother when she was 18. Hasn’t talked to us since. You don’t remember that?”

Dean shakes his head. Jo’s adopted? Huh.

“Are you even still up for tonight?”

“Tonight?”

Sam’s gaze is loaded and Dean gets the drift.

“You still want Ruby?”

“What?”

“Last thing you said was you wanted her to watch, so…”

“No. No.” Dean shakes his head: brain on fire. “Just us. Just… No.”

Fuck this life. It's worse than the last one.  
But he needs Sam. Needs to feel him. Needs to be with him, in case the next jump cracks Dean's soul or whatever it is.

“All right. I’ll see you around one.”

***

  
Around one in the morning, the first thing Sam does is plop his gargantuan ass on the sofa and turn on a poker tournament.

Dean has been nursing a bottle of vodka since everyone cleared out a few hours ago.

He wants Sam, but this isn’t Sam.

“So, Ruby knows you're here?”

“‘Course.”

“Can you remind me what your dad’s number one rule was?”

Sam looks over his shoulder. “Come sit down.”

Dean holds his ground, roosting on the edge of the pool table. “You make me nervous, dude.”

“You’re nervous?” Sam laughs. “What do you have to be nervous for?”

“I don’t belong here. This life is fucked up.” So he's drunk enough that his filter is faulty.

“This life is fucked up?” Sam stands. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’re…”

“I’m what?” Sam stalks over - a Bengal tiger in dress shoes.

“You’re married, for one.”

“She’s my fucking maid. She’s a breeder, Dean. I don’t know what the hell you’re waiting for. You got to have an heir, right? Isn’t that what you said? Someone to pass all this shit to.”

Sam gestures at the house, and somehow Dean missed the part when he was being backed up against a wall. Sam licks his lips.

“Those were your words," he says. "I never fucking wanted Ruby. You made me marry her. You told me you were going to marry Cassie, and then she lost the baby, and you didn’t.”

“I… Cassie? Really?”

“You telling me they knocked your skull so hard you forgot Cassie?”

“No. No, of course not. Just...”

Sam grabs him by the shoulder, gives a firm shake and bangs his back against the brick. Ragdoll status. “Do I need to bash some sense back into you? Huh?”

That’s rhetorical, right?

“It should have been just me and you. Should have never let any bitches in between us. We never used to let anything between us. Dad stomped my ass; you made sure he stomped yours, too. You remember that?"

Dean remained speechless.

"We’re still going out together, right?”

“Going out?”

Sam slammed Dean’s head against the wall again. “You don’t fucking forget that. You never forget. The last breath you take in this world, you take with me.”

The real Sam might have made that statement romantic and chick-. With this freak, it’s terrifying and sounds imminent.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like fucking Ruby,” Sam says. “Like I scare you or something. I scare you, Dean? You scared of me, mother fucker?”

He crouches low and growls.

Scared is a fair description, but Dean's not as small, comparatively, as he was in his original reality. He’s no leviathan like Sam, but he has some bulk to him, too, and a solid six feet. He crouches and growls back, because it seems like the right thing to do.

Sam’s snarl becomes a smile for a split second before he crashes through the space between them, hoisting Dean onto his shoulder.

Grunting, he hauls his prey across the room and tosses him onto his back on the pool table like a fresh kill. Dishes scatter and fall to the floor as Sam yanks Dean to the edge by his ankles, scraping a layer of skin off his lower back.  
  
“I’m going to fuck the shit out of you.”

Dean doesn’t even think before he kicks him in the jaw.

Sam laughs and stretches his neck like the Terminator. “You runt bitch.”

He doesn't pull his punch and bells go off in Dean’s ear. It's the hardest he's ever been hit in his life.

“Come here and get your medicine, little boy.”

“Fuck you.” Dean hits him back and probably breaks a finger.

He stares down at the pained claw that used to be a hand.

“What the hell are you doing, idiot? You’re going to injure your fucking throwing hand?” Sam hands Dean a plate. “You use shit. You always use shit.” He points at his own head. “Go on. I’m not fucking going easy on you just ‘cause you got memory loss, so you better man the fuck up.”

Sam reaches for Dean’s belt, and Dean bashes him over the head with the plate. Sam growls and shakes it off, still fumbling with Dean’s pants.

“No. Sam. Look. No. I don’t want to do this.” Logic.

Reason should work. This is Sam, after all.

“I don’t want to do this.” Sam imitates, like he’s mimicking a little girl. “You don’t have to do shit but take it. I’m going to pound that ass into the fucking floor.”

He drags Dean’s jeans to his knees, picks him up and flips him, ass-up over the table, staring at the cueball. With a hand on the back of Dean's neck, pinning him, Sam starts on his own pants.

This animal is going to rape him, with Sam’s fucking humongous dick and all of their daddy issues.  
Does he even have any lube?  
The best thing Dean can do for his ass and his sanity is to lay still and take it, and it’ll be over soon.

“You’re not even trying,” Sam says. “I assume you want to get stuffed tonight. Am I right? That’s how you want it tonight, Dean?”

“No.”

Sam grinds against his ass, holding Dean’s wrists out to the side like he’s preparing a crucifixion. Not yet entering or breaking, but with every intent.

“What do you mean, no?" Sam asks. "What the hell does that mean? You want it. You always want it. You always want to fuck me, but I was stronger today. So, you got to be my bitch.”

Dean lays still, willing himself to relax. If he clenches, if he fights, it’ll only make it worse. Make this animal take him rougher. That’s how it always is.

“Dean. I don’t know what you’re doing. Is this a new game? You’re just going to take it?”

They're both frozen for a moment before Sam drops Dean's wrists. Dean lays there breathing hard through his mouth.

“Your head is completely fucked, isn’t it?”

Sam’s buckle clinks shut. Dean should stand up and right his clothes, instead of laying there with his asshole toward the ceiling.  
Can’t move.

“Come here.” Sam carries him to the sofa, drops him in the corner and tosses a blanket over him.

He kneels at Dean’s side, looking into his face. “Should I call somebody now? Do we need to go to the ER, Dean? You’re scaring the shit out of me, man.”

“Please help me.” Dean closes his eyes. “Castiel. Please.”

“Who the hell is--” Sam becomes a statue with Castiel's face peering over his shoulder.

He pinches Sam’s bicep. “What the hell have they been feeding this ox?”

“Send me back to Sam. The real Sam. Please.” Tears well thick in Dean’s eyes.

“The only thing for you on that timeline is death, kiddo.” Castiel flops down beside Dean, smacking his thigh.

“What about Sam?”

“Oh, he’s gone, Dean." Castiel's sigh is probably as close to sympathy as this asshole can get. "I tried. I really did. For Angie’s sake. She loved him, too, you know.”

"What are you saying?"

“He didn’t suffer. I made sure of that. It was all I could do.”

Sam can’t die. It’s not true.

Dean can’t speak, move, breathe until the ache in his chest becomes a flare of anger. “You're lying. You don't want us to be together.”

“I, personally, never gave a shit.” Castiel pats behemoth-Sam’s cheek. “The one you want is gone.”

“Then send me back, so I can fucking kill Crowley.”

Castiel shakes his head and frowns at the statue of Sam like something stuck on the bottom of his shoe. “Jody is not on board with that plan. She is not just going to let you die, and that is what's going to happen if you go back there.”

“Please." Dean drops his head into his hands.

It's not life without Sam.  
Can’t think about it. Just has to go. Be with Sam.  
Castiel's fingers are like ice on Dean's neck.  
He’s ready to die.  
Ready now.

“Chivalrous as that is, there’s a timeline directly adjacent to ours. A few minor differences,” Castiel says. “The thing is, you can’t keep doing this. One jump too many and it’s all gone. Your old memories and the new ones.”

“Sam is there?”

“Not exactly your Sam, but close.”

What choice does Dean have, even if he goes there and his mind is all melted? Then he won't even remember that there was a better life. A Sam who was kind, and gentle, and his.  
A Sam who died because Dean loved him.

 


	66. Chapter 66

There's a special corner of Hell for people who drown kittens for fun.  
Dean would rather be there than suffer this persistent pulsing pressure that radiates from the center of his skull.

Death would be welcome if that would make this torture stop.

The hand on his shoulder burns his skin. The light is vicious, piercing to the brain and making him want to curl into a fetal ball and die.

Gradually, mercifully, the pulse gives way to an obnoxious quacking that becomes a voice through a loudspeaker.

When Dean opens his eyes, he’s sitting in a room with a hundred strangers. They're all at candlelit tables, the tinkle of glasses and snickers ought to lessen the tension in his gut, but doesn’t until he sees that the hand belongs to a handsome man with gentle eyes behind thick glasses.

“...who some of you know as beloved art teacher. Some know the other as hard-neck coach … What? It’s true. Both of them have dedicated their lives to saving the world, a little bit at a time.” The young woman speaking is in her early twenties.

She's pretty with dark hair, dark eyes.

From behind her a teenager with a wild, sandy mane leans to the microphone. “We just call them our dads. Give it up for this year’s Lifetime Achievement Award winners, Sam Winchester and Dean Miller.”

While the applause erupts, the boy calls out, “Pop’s birthday was yesterday, so you can give it up for that, too.”

Then he joins the applause.

That hand moves to the small of Dean’s back. This man is tall, with streaks of white running through his dark hair. The furrows run deep in his brow. His laugh lines and crow’s feet are deeper still. Otherwise, he's exactly the same.

Sam sets down a wine glass. Dean leans forward to sniff his breath: wine

A Sam who can drink. A Sam who flashes that same thousand-watt smile and says, “Come on, old man. You’re going make these people wait until you finish your pie?”

A wrecking ball is still hard at work behind Dean’s left eye, but he clutches a piece of paper in his right hand and lets Sam escort him to the podium. It’s not until the young woman embraces him that he whispers, “Luna? Holy crap.”

He squeezes so tight she squeaks.

Sam says into the microphone, “For those of you who don’t know my husband, he’s kind of a dramatic person.”

Dean looks into the boy’s face, but there's nothing. No bells are ringing, although he's familiar. Is he someone Dean should know?

“Seriously, Pop?” The kid rolls hunter-green eyes and shakes his head like he’s used to Dean’s antics.

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose and nudges Dean to the mic.

Dean blinks at the paper in his hand. Blurred runes. Has he forgotten how to read? Frantic, he searches for help, and Sam lifts the chained glasses from Dean’s chest.

The audience titters like this is all scripted. Like there isn’t a man in front of them who doesn’t even know his own life.

Once his reading glass are in place, Dean clears his throats and follows his notes. “If it weren’t for this man right here, and a boatload of therapy, I would not be who I am today.” He covers the mic with his hand and asks Sam, “When did we get a son?”

The microphone squeaks and he lets it go.

Sam’s eyes narrow and he mouths, “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah. No. I mean…” Dean's hand has liver spots. “How old am I?”

The audience laughs.

Luna pats his shoulder. “54, you old ham.”

Their son sidles up next to Sam who still looks concerned. Dean doesn’t even know the boy’s name. He scans through the speech he’s written. “And without our kids, Luna and ... Sean ... I’ll be damned.”

Dean drops the paper with his speech notes and picks up the plaque. “I honestly don’t even know what we’re being awarded for.”

More chuckles from the crowd. It must be pretty funny to watch.

The award reads: PFLAG Lifetime Achievement in Community Service. “But, I hope we earned it. I hope it means that we helped a lot of people. Maybe changed a few things. One thing I know is that I love these guys and that I would give anything to make the world for them.”

Dean hands the trophy to his kids and pulls Sam close. As far as he’s concerned, they could drop the curtain now.

“What the hell is going on with you?” Sam asks, leaning back for a better look.

Dean shakes his head. “Nothing. Just emotional.”

“Bull.” The Sam checking his face is weather-worn and bitchy and Dean can’t help taking his cheeks between his hands and kissing the crap out of him.

Sam eventually has to make him stop. “Can you not create a spectacle, for once?”

“So, we’re old. Okay?" Dean is still searching for his peace with that. "But we still fuck, right?”

Sean turns up his nose. “Pop, man, ew. Am I not scarred enough?”

“He’s caught us?”

“Multiple times.” Sam smiles. “You’ve somehow forgotten that?”

“It wouldn't happen if you'd stay in your room like normal parents.”

Luna hangs an arm over her little brother's shoulder. “And when have these two ever been normal?”

***

They part ways with the kids immediately following the ceremony.  
‘The kids’ is a good one. Sean is a year older than Dean had been when he left his timeline. But he seems like a good son. He’d volunteered to give them some peace by spending the night at his girlfriend’s place.

Luna is working on a graduate degree. Sam's begonias might not survive the winter, and his non-stop chatter on the drive home gives Dean a decent overview of this life so far. Eventually, Dean sinks into the passenger’s seat and lets himself be lulled by Sam's voice while tuning out most of the details.

When they enter the house, Sam disappears, giving Dean time to pick up an envelope on the table by the front door.  
Vermont.

Dean walks around the place, studying the high ceiling, the modern decor the family photos on the mantle. He picks up a framed image from their masquerade ball wedding, just the way Dean had planned it with Charlie.

Sean’s life is spread out in wood-framed snapshots. A lot of Luna’s, too. Horse-rides and apple picking trips. What about all those unphotographed moments that would make this his life? Dean will remember it all after a good night's sleep. He'll forget the nightmare he came from.

When Sam reappears in a white t-shirt and a pair of jeans, those light streaks in his hair, the faint lines in his skin - he’s even more gorgeous, in a way: weathered and wonderful. He offers Dean a tumbler, clinks their glasses together and downs a high-end whiskey that burns Dean’s throat, anchoring him in this timeline even more.

This is where he is. It's good.

It’s dim by the light of the lamp in the corner. Still, the room is bright enough to make out the grin on Sam’s face as he closes the few inches between them. He takes Dean’s glass, nests them together and sets them on a table behind him.

He’s close enough to kiss, but simply squeezes Dean’s arm, peering down into his face. “You good?”

“Yeah. Just ... I will be.”

“You're being weird all night.”

“I know.”

When Dean finally gets his kiss, it’s so soft. No urgency, just tenderness. Sam’s lips he knows so well; the complete ease of his presence is strange. There's always been some stress, some strain on them. When have they ever just been together?

Dean holds Sam there, savoring. He rubs a silken, silver strand between his thumb and two fingers. “You look like Pepe LePew.”

Sam smiles. “I'd still choose you over Chris Pratt, Chris Pine, and Brad Pitt.”

"Now you're just being ridiculous."

Sam unbuttons Dean’s shirt and pulls the tails from his pants. Smirking, he unbuckles the belt, slips it free in one smooth tug and flips it over his shoulder like first prize. “I'm up early, you know.”

Dean didn’t know, but he nods.

“So, don’t be long,” Sam says before vanishing up a flight of stairs.

Dean takes another look around at this life that was built by some other guy. Some version of himself has done well. Got the guy and a happy ever after.

But Dean hasn't earned this family, this house, this ending.

He wanders into this-Sam’s spotless kitchen. Opens the fridge.  
Not hungry. Just looking.

His fingertips glide along the cool marble countertop. He unsheathes a stainless steel steak knife. Any artery and he’ll be where he belongs in a matter of minutes. Would that send him to his Sam or just kill the poor sonofabitch whose body he’s stolen?

On the other hand, he could turn off the light, go upstairs and fall asleep in this-Sam's arms. By tomorrow or the next day, he won’t remember anything else.

Before Dean's feet touch the cream-colored carpeted steps, he stops and whispers, “Castiel.”

Nothing happens.

Maybe he won’t come.

Dean grips the railing and hoists this still sturdy, but strangely creaky body up toward his husband. There are worse things than that.

As the center step creaks, Castiel answers from behind him, “What? Come on. Even a spoiled brat like you couldn’t ask for better than this.”

With a sigh, Dean sits down in the middle of the staircase, causing his left knee to crack painfully. His guardian angel/half-demon mother settles beside him.

"Why'd you make me so fucking old?"

"You wavered and landed askew. I told you this is taxing on a soul and this brain is even more little cracked than your original, so..." Castiel shrugs.

“If this me comes back, will his brain be fried or…”

“No,” Castiel says. “He'll just have lost some time.”

Dean nods, face tight as if he’s doing advanced computation. “Look, I appreciate what you, and Jody, and Angie have done, but this isn’t my life.”

“You’re asking me to kill you, Dean. Crowley doesn’t do debt forgiveness.”

“I’m asking you to send me home. To my Sam,” Dean says. "You said yourself, you don't care. Override Jody and send me back. If I die, I die." 

Even behind his closed eyes, everything goes impossibly bright as the world slips off its axis.

  

 


	67. Chapter 67

This boy's mouth is a miracle. And he's undoubtedly heard that before, so Sam bites his lip to keep from regaling Dean with filthy praises he's heard a thousand times.

Dean never takes Sam all the way, though. He wraps his hand around the base to regulate how far into his mouth Sam penetrates.

Sam, who would never push. He might want to sink into that tight throat, pin Dean’s head still and grind up between those perfect, plump lips. But he keeps his hands at his sides instead of in the boy’s hair or on his flushed, lightly-freckled cheeks.

Sam doesn’t need to touch him. He focuses on up-turned Dean's eyes, and those lips, and the spit-slicked slide of his practiced hand. It’s no time before Sam's toes curl in the sand, his thighs tightening around Dean’s chest. Sam’s back arches, pressing the back of his skull into the ground as his body quakes with the pleasure of his release: like exploding into the universe.

The kid spits Sam’s essence to the ground, wipes his face, and asks, “Was that okay?”

Whatever words Sam wants to say are floating in the ether with the rest of him. He manages to shake his head in awe and appreciation. This moment, and place, and the exquisite creature sitting on his thighs: it’s better than anything he’s ever let himself imagine.

Dean’s eyes fix on the nearest tree as he mutters, “Sorry.”

Sam catches Dean's ankle as he walks away. “It was…”

Dean looks down, on the verge of sulking like a toddler. “You liked it?”

Sam chuckles. How could Dean have any doubt? "Yeah. Now, would you please, kiss me?”

Both of their lips have been otherwise occupied since they met up. How could that have been yesterday?

Dean smiles and straddles Sam’s chest. That mouth. God. And that maddening habit of wetting it every few minutes.

Sam cups Dean’s face, the other hand on the small of his back.  
He’ll remember this kiss for the rest of his life. His heart clenches and soars, the way it had when he approached Dean at the track yesterday.

Sam sits up to meet him halfway, and Dean freezes. Retreats a fraction of an inch.

“You don’t have to.”

“I don’t think I want to, man. Sorry.”

Sam tries for a smile. His lips twitch and curl, but he can’t quite bring himself to say it’s okay.

Dean slaps his side like they're a pair of frat buddies. “Come get in the water.”

Sam shakes his head; needs a minute. Why is he like this? So emotional, so fast. The kid wants to have a good time. He’s not here to save Sam from Castiel, or from loneliness, or anything else.

Just enjoy him.

Dean runs down the shore, wades into the water up to his thighs. He puts it off, wasn't even sure he was going in, but  
eventually, Sam stands and folds his pants.

"You fucking nerd!”

Sam grins at the accusation and rolls his socks together. Then he charges like a bull. Dean tries to dodge, but he’s done for. Sam dives, dragging them both below the icy surface.

Five minutes later, Dean’s lips are blue. Sam has to toss him over his shoulder like a stubborn kid and carry him to the shore. Dean’s kicks him in the ribs.

Sam drops his squirming cargo and they wrestle until Sam acquiesces, although he could very easily pin the boy and take that kiss, if he wanted to. But Sam wouldn't do that. He doesn’t want to fight, not even for pretend. He wants to lay naked in the grass and hold this kid, like there isn’t anything else in the world.

  
***

  
Once the shrieking pain subsides to a mere howling ache, he can appreciate that the chest beneath him is warm. In it, a heart beats slow and steady against his cheek. A strong arm is draped over his shoulder, fingers splayed between ribs. He runs his hand up into a hairy armpit and back down to thigh.

Whoever this guy is, his body is insane.

  
***

  
They’d been laying like lizards for so long that the sun is ducking behind clouds and Dean is covered in goosebumps. He's drooling on Sam’s chest, no doubt still asleep.

It's been a long time since Sam has done anything like just goofing off in the water. If that’s all the kid wants - fun that feels good - Sam can do that.

He checks his watch and taps Dean’s shoulder. “Hey. What time is practice?”

“What?” Dean asks, squinting as if he’s never heard even heard the word before.

Sam chuckles. “Yeah. I know. We should pitch a tent out here.”

The kid scrunches up his face even further. Then he stands, pulls on his boxers and hunts the ground, probably for his pants. “Dude, my brain is like…”

Even with that goofy, confused look on his face, Dean moves like mercury. Sam just watches.

“This is embarrassing, man. I just… Can't remember shit.” Once his jeans are on, he shakes his head and runs his hands through his damp hair. “How much did we say?”

It’s not really a funny joke, but Sam snickers to break the tension in his chest.

“And what the fuck did we smoke?” Dean squints and appears to be searching the trees for something.

Sam sits up. “Dean.”

Dean nods and mouths his own name like he’s just been reminded.

“This isn’t funny.”

“Agreed. So why don’t you be cool and pony up? Or is that why you wanted to come all the way out here?” He puts his hands on his hips, still searching. “Dude, where the fuck are we?”

“It’s called Doggett’s Creek.” Sam pulls on his shirt.

“Yeah, no, I mean… Fuck.” The confused expression deteriorates to distress. “Did you say Deacon or Dale?”

***

Emerald eyes dart around the room every few seconds. Dean holds his nose over the steaming cup of tea, but doesn't venture to drink. He hasn’t spoken a word since they were in the car, where he'd chewed his fingernails to the quick.

The last thing he’d said was an echo of Sam’s name, after he’d asked a third time.

Sam stands across the room, covering his mouth with a hand, waiting for any of this to make sense. He should take Dean home, but confidence in his mother is not exactly overwhelming.

Most likely, Dean's experiencing delayed memory loss from his recent concussion, but it's the most severe and sudden Sam ever seen. He should take the kid to the hospital.

And say what?  
Please help my underage boyfriend? How old is Dean even?  
And boyfriend isn’t true. They’ve been seeing each other for less than 24 hours.  
If blowjobs count as dating.

Dean is basically a child Sam wants to screw.  
No.  
He’s more than that.  
For no apparent reason, he’s more.

Sam could keep him here. Take care of him.  
Which is insanity.

He massages his forehead and waits for an answer. If he believed in God he’d be praying.

“Do you want to go lay down?”

Dean’s eyes turn to him and he gives a small smile, but no answer.”

“Dean?”

Does he even understand what Sam is saying?

Sam tucks a hand under Dean’s arm and assists him to the bedroom. Not that he needs the help. His body hasn't changed. He’s still flawless and strong, looking up at Sam with guileless, vacant infant’s eyes.

Sam helps him in the bathroom, and out of the jeans, because it will be more comfortable to sleep that way. Nothing else. He won’t take anything more from Dean. Nothing sexual. Not while he’s like this.

Once the kid is tucked in, Sam wanders into the kitchen. It would be just the right time for a stiff drink. Obviously, not an option. So, he fires up his laptop and researches memory loss until a shout from the back of the apartment causes him run back to Dean’s side.

Sam halts, muscles coiled for defense even if the portly man in the black suit is far from intimidating. This stranger is standing beside the bed, too close to Dean.

If he had come through the door, Sam would have heard him. The windows are closed, but there's the faintest odor of rotten eggs.

“Who the hell are you?”

“He is good and fried, isn't he?” The grinning man spoke in a cloying north London accent.

“Get away from him!”

“Just removing my mark, so there’s no confusion.” The man’s hand rises toward Dean’s chest.

“I said don’t touch him.” Sam lunges with the intention of shoving the intruder away.

Instead, his muscles lock and he’s unable to move.

“Winchesters.” The man shakes his head and holds his hand over Dean’s chest, ripping a shriek from the boy while some unholy light illuminates beneath his shirt.

The man in the suit claps his hands and rubs them together. “All right. Well, my work here is done. His debt’s all paid. I drive a hard bargain, but I'm not unreasonable.”

“Debt?” Sam asks, though his body is still immobile.

“Mm. A friend of yours, I believe. A Jimmy Novak?”

Sam knows no Jimmy, but that last name sends a chill through him. “If Castiel put you up to this…”

“Jimmy has offered me the most unique meatsuit I’ve ever encountered, in exchange for your brother’s freedom. You should be a bit more grateful.”

“Brother?”

“You two really are priceless.” The man's hand raises, fingers poised to snap.

“Wait!” Without knowing how, Sam knows. Not what he's dealing with, but that this strange, little man is his only chance. “Can you help him?”

A greasy smile spreads like an oil slick. “Why would I do that?”

“Please.”

“You do realize that under normal circumstances, there would be no coming back from this. You're looking at soul fracture, cerebral damage. The bloody works," the man says. "However, it appears that Dean is made mostly of slightly different stuff. There's enough previous scar tissue on his brain - from all the getting knocked about, and on his soul from ... well, various things. I might be able to intercede. Perhaps not.”

"Please try?"

“And I get…?”

“What do you want?” The better question is, what is Sam willing to offer? How far will he go for this boy he hardly knows?

“I believe that I'll have a pint of blood from your first-born. Not now, but when it suits me.” The man shrugs. "Call it poetic justice."

Besides the impossibility of striking a deal with some weirdo in an undertaker's suit, what Sam has been asked is the equivalent of requesting a tribesman to part with his Rolls Royce. Sam is a gay man with no interest in children. A first born is not something he's ever going to have. “Fine."

The man in the black suit laughs and gestures until he can reach Sam's lapels to drag him into a kiss. Chuckling, he snaps his fingers and vanishes.

“Crowley was here.”

Suddenly dizzy, Sam spins and sinks to his knees beside the bed.

Dean blinks his eyes open and shuts them again. “I smell him.”

Sam drops his head to the mattress for just a moment’s reprieve from the whirlwind of emotions.

“What --"

“King of Hell.” Dean covers his eyes with his hands, breathing slowly, as if through intense pain. "When are we?"

How does to answer that question? Ideally a date and year, but Sam is still processing little men who snap their fingers and disappear.

"We're back at the apartment," Dean says. "How long have we been together?"

“A day." Sam touches Dean's arm, confirming that, at least, he's real.

"Jesus," Dean says, and it's the understatement of the century.

Sam sinks to the floor, leans back against the bed, focuses on something he can control: regulating his breath. Dean’s fingers scraping his scalp shouldn’t feel so good, but that sensation anchors Sam. Brings him peace.

 

***

 

“You were ... What the Hell happened to you?" Sam blathers and who can blame him? "King of Hell? Why did he say we were brothers?”

“I’ll tell you everything, Sam. I swear. Just give me a moment.” Dean’s brain is still pulsing like he’s been mowed over, several times, by the entire NFL.

It takes more than a moment before he's sure he won’t throw up. The silky slide of Sam's hair between his fingers, and each subsequent breath ground him to this reality.

The only place he belongs.

When Dean is ready, he slides onto Sam’s lap, arms resting on Sam's shoulders. His head is still swimming, but no worse than after a regular hit.

Those variable eyes stare back with a mixture of uncertainty and fairytale kindness. Dean has never dared to believe that the tenderness in Sam’s eyes is real. Now, he’d stake his entire existence on it. He'd live and die for Sam’s huge, warm hands around his waist, his voice low and cautious as he says, "It's weird."

"Yeah, it is." Dean can't stop looking at him.

Soaking up Sam’s too-big love. 

Dean thought he had appreciated Sam before. Then, he'd lost him, and seen incarnations that threatened to break his bones and his heart. 

"I can't lose you, okay? Everything else. Not you." Dean closes his arms so tight around Sam’s neck that the man moans a half-hearted protest.

Dean breathes in Sam's colgone and mumbles into his hair. "So, are you cool with it, if I never let you go?"

Sam chuckles. "Yeah. I think I might be."

"Good."

Sam’s hands slide up, caress Dean's shoulders before those arms enfold and hold him just as tight. 

"I'm right here." Sam's voice rumbles against his chest. "Everything's all right," he says.

Dean nods and lets himself relax, because against all odds, it's finally true.

  

 


	68. EPILOGUE

OFFICIAL NFL TRANSCRIPT:

COMMENTATOR VICTOR CRUZ: Ladies and gentleman, coming on to the field now, your Miami Dolphins. And there he is, the new hope. And would you listen to the crowd? Hard to tell if that's love or hate.

COMMENTATOR LAVAR HARRINGTON: I'd say a little bit of both. Cheers and jeers, Vic.

VICTOR: Some of you will remember this young man dominating for the last three years at Texas A&M when he was still going as Dean Miller. It’s been some Hell of a year for this young quarterback.

LAVAR: That’s right, Victor. 12th in the draft, followed by a highly publicized wedding to former Steelers QB, Sam Winchester who never saw a single game before his mysterious retirement. We speculate that he'll address that, as well as a number of other things in his forthcoming memoir, entitled "Fathers and Heroes"

He's also managing his husband's career. And together, they've co-founded an organization in support of queer athletes, as well as a group called S.O.S. - Survivors of Sexual Assault. So, like I said, busy year.

And there he is in the stands, ladies and gentlemen. Sam Winchester. (laughs) Look at him going nuts.

One thing's for sure, Vic. Dean Winchester has got an arm and accuracy like we haven't seen since Namath. Dean Winchester is coming into his first season with more sponsorships and under more scrutiny and criticism than any starting quarterback in pro-ball history.

VICTOR: He’s all anybody is talking about. I’m sure you all saw the interview with Coach Saunders.

LAVAR: I have the quote right here. "Winchester is a one of a kind of player and that rare kind of human being: the more pressure you put him under, the brighter he shines. We couldn’t be prouder to have him on our team."

VICTOR: Well, it'll be good if he shines under pressure, Lavar because he's going to have plenty of it.

LAVAR: That he is, Vic. A lot of people don't appreciate the attention they're getting. I, personally, got a chance to interview them. Great pair of guys, good heads on their shoulders. I wish them the best.  
Guess we’ll all see what happens on the field.

VICTOR: That we will.  
All right, ladies and gentlemen, Dolphins win the coin toss. Here goes your kick off.

LAVAR: Ought to be one Hell of a game.

 

 

THE END

 

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/x2107eK)

 

 


	69. Timestamp

“Easy, tiger.” Dean smirks and swipes his thumb across the corner of Sam’s mouth to clear away the drool.

The man of the hour slides through the crowd of reporters, easy as a demon knife. Sam, who had insisted on sticking around for this part of the conference, extends a firm (not remotely fanboy-looking) hand.

“Mr. Brady.” 

With those two words, all Sam’s talk about the joys of monogamy fly through the window and dissolve before it hits the ground. Understandable, when he’s eye to eye with a beautifully built, All-American blue-eyed blond who belongs between the Winchesters like gourmet roast beef on artisan rye. That Guy smiles and gives them each a million-dollar handshake.

Brady's equally stunning wife doesn’t appear to be present. Oh, the fun those four could have.

"You guys are ... ought to be proud," Brady says. "Lot of folks looking up to you."

That's not exactly a compliment. Dean keeps the annoyance off his face, but this is exactly what he didn’t want: their private life overshadowing his game.

"Most of the warrior spirit and integrity has been drained from football. Hard to know what it’s even about anymore." Brady's grip of Dean’s hand is firm, his eye contact unwavering. "But it’s clear, you have a larger vision of yourself as an athlete and a person. I admire that."

Then he walks away.

Dean snaps back to reality when Sam grabs his shoulder and whispers, "Down boy."

This, by no means suggests that Dean’s going easy on the Patriots when they go head to head. But the guy makes an impression. 

Now, Sam’s the one bitchily smirking.

”Shut up.”

He and Dean leave the press conference with fingers threaded together. And if a few people glance at that, nobody has shit to say about it.

Their car is a few rows back. Sam points to it as Dean directs him around the building to a quiet corner of the loading dock.

Religion be damned, but when everything’s all right, sometimes a man has to fall to his knees and give thanks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This time last year I was kicking off this fic. The Patriots played an insane game, and now Brady has led them back. Had to do a little something to commemorate.
> 
> Canoodling at an NFL press conference? Not likely. I know  
> It’s fiction. Just enjoy it  
> And the game

**Author's Note:**

> Discovering fic, AO3, the whole wacky SPN family has made 2017 quite a year for me. Writing and sharing this story has helped me develop new insight and bravery.  
> Thank You for reading and especially for your heartfelt and wise feedback. 
> 
> Wind beneath my wings, Amusawale!
> 
> It is with a noisy, theatrical sigh that I let this one go.
> 
> I'm always thrilled to connect. If you'd like, find me at www.facebook.com/benlmoorefic
> 
>  
> 
> Last Words:  
> When I’ve made it this far with a writer, I wonder what else of theirs to read. So, if I may self-rec, my first posted fic was "All The Way." It’s dark, AU weecest with no HEA, but I’m still quite proud of it.   
> "Breathe: (2:00 AM)" has a much more pleasant ending. 
> 
> If you’re open to Denny (Benny/Dean), I’d suggest "Blue Teardrops Fall: A Purgatory Love Story"
> 
> Looking for other writers? May I lead you to Morgan who is my favorite writer of AU Wincest, and strangely underread on this site. 
> 
> If you’d like to question humanity with a very dark piece, have a cautious look at AzrielRose’s WIP.
> 
> And that’s really and truly it from me.
> 
> B


End file.
